in the intensity of her artistic fervor, she believed
herself an ascetic for her work's sake.

"The common lot of womanhood is not for you," she declared. "You must
live for your art!" And her voice trembled with the touching
earnestness that she had so easily assumed--and would as easily cast
off.

To Sheila, however, there never came a doubt of Mrs. North's deep
sincerity. She had listened, as if to a priestess, while the novelist
proclaimed her sublime creed of renunciation, and she now offered the
obstacle to it in her own situation with a sense of having fallen from
grace in being thus human:

"But I'm married, you know."

"And so am I. But I am consecrated, nevertheless, to my art. And so,
my dear, must you be. You must give yourself utterly,--_utterly_--to
your art! Art won't take less. _Your_ husband must live for
_you_--instead of your living for him after the fashion of most wives.
And you'll be worth his living for--I'm sure of that."

"I--I don't understand," faltered Sheila. "I don't understand what it
is I mustn't do for Ted."

Alice North held her hands more closely and fixed her luminous eyes
upon her--eyes which, to many before Sheila, had seemed to shine with
the light of a beautiful soul: "You mustn't do for him the one thing
that you and he will want most--you mustn't have children for him! My
dear, _you_ must be a mother with your _brain_--not with your body.
You can't do both--at least, worthily--and you must give yourself to
creation with your mind. There are women enough already to become
mothers of the other sort!"

Sheila did not reply. Slowly the glow faded from her face, from her
eyes. Slowly and listlessly she withdrew her hands from Mrs. North's
fervid clasp and leaned back in her chair. Clearly the supreme moment
had passed; the flame of her ardor had flickered out. Mrs. North
glanced curiously at her. An instant before, the girl had been
radiant, tremulous with aspiration and with hope. Now she was
apathetic and cold, her spirit no more than a handful of ashes.

The silence lengthened--grew heavy with meaning. Alice North put out
her hand again: "I trust I haven't intruded--offended?"

"Oh, no," said Sheila stiffly, "you have been very kind, and--I am
sure--very wise." But her frank gaze had grown guarded; her whole
manner had become that of defensive reserve.

Yes, clearly, the great moment was over; the drama was ended.

"What a queer girl," remarked M