know_ that."

"Labor leaders, Harry!" The small boy's face was comic with scorn and
facetiousness.

"You know the ones I mean, Bub. Not the men who lead labor--that's only
what they call themselves; but the men who betray labor for their own
pockets, the men who find dynamite for half-witted fanatics to set off.
The men--" He broke short off, and listened. "Better butt in to the
studio, Bub, and see what's doing,"

"Did you think you heard something?"

"I know that I haven't heard anything for half an hour."

In a few minutes Bubbles returned. "He's just sitting there with a hell
of a face on him," he said, "and she's working like a dynamo."

And although Barbara actually was working with great speed and
gratitude, the entrance of the small boy had seemed to disturb the train
of her inspiration. Somewhere in the back of her head appeared to be
some brain-cells quite detached from the important matter in hand, and
to these was conveyed the fact that a door-knob had been turned, and at
once they began to busy themselves upon the suggestion. Something like
this: door-knobs--old door-knobs--new glass door-knobs--man to put on
new glass door-knobs--wonderfully prepossessing man--name
Harry--charming name. Harry--charming smile--wonder if anybody'll ever
see him again.

Gradually other cells in Barbara's brain took up the business, until
presently she was entirely occupied with unasked, and unwelcome, and
altogether pleasant thoughts of the young secret-service agent. It was
almost as if he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said: "You've worked
long enough on this dreadful beggar--come with me for a holiday."

Twice, sternly, she endeavored to go on with her work, and could not.
Something of the May-weather message, that all is futile except life,
had filtered into her blood. Her hands dropped to her sides, and her
face, very rosy, became so wonderfully beautiful that Blizzard almost
groaned aloud. Something told him that his morning was over, his morning
filled with the happiness of propinquity and stolen looks, with the
happiness that is half spiritual and half gloating.

"Thank you," said Barbara, "ever so much. I sha'n't do any more to-day.
I'm not fit. But we have gotten on. Want to look?"

She turned the revolving-table so that Blizzard could look upon his
likeness. And you may be sure that he did not lose the opportunity thus
presented. He regarded the clay steadily, for a long time, without
speaking. Then