h crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding through the corridors
hitherto haunted only by shabby paletots, shadowy hats, and cigar
smoke. This irruption was borne with manly fortitude, not to say
cheerfulness, for studio doors stood hospitably open as the fair
invaders passed, and studies from life were generously offered them in
glimpses of picturesque gentlemen posed before easels, brooding over
master-pieces in "a divine despair," or attitudinizing upon couches as
if exhausted by the soarings of genius.

An atmosphere of romance began to pervade the old buildings when the
girls came, and nature and art took turns. There were peepings and
whisperings, much stifled laughter and whisking in and out; not to
mention the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams,
which somewhat lightened the severe studies of all parties.

Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily in one of the
cells of a great art beehive called "Raphael's Rooms," and devoted
their shining hours to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; for
the poor things found the road to fame rather dull and dusty without
such verbal sprinklings.

"Psyche Dean, you've had an adventure! I see it in your face; so tell
it at once, for we are stupid as owls here to-day," cried one of the
sisterhood, as a bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation.

"I dropped my portfolio, and a man picked it up, that's all." replied
Psyche, hurrying on her gray linen pinafore.

"That won't do; I know something interesting happened, for you've been
blushing, and you look brisker than usual this morning," said the
first speaker, polishing off the massive nose of her Homer.

"It wasn't anything," began Psyche a little reluctantly. "I was coming
up in a hurry when I ran against a man coming down in a hurry. My
portfolio slipped, and my papers went flying all about the landing. Of
course we both laughed and begged pardon, and I began to pick them
up, but he wouldn't let me; so I held the book while he collected the
sketches. I saw him glance at them as he did so, and that made me
blush, for they are wretched things, you know."

"Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a regular genius, as
we all agree," cut in the Homeric Miss Cutter.

"Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish to spoil them,"
returned Psyche severely. "Well, when the portfolio was put to rights
I was going on, but he fell to picking up a little bunch of violets
I had dropp