e would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. But
then, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deem
beneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but the
outward semblance of humanity.

The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actually
resented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had looked
at the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it a
valuable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. But
then, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a Van
Rossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of such
moderate worth.

Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who stand
behind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of aching
heads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the million
considered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part of
fate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens,
destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and the
constant effort to smile in spite of these.

And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child.
It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the most
glorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward lies
in the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep body
and soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms,
in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail to
be squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Her
gift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bring
bitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, there
would have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, no
tiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a nice
schoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her care
and tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there might
have been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day,
when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach little
pupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come to
all. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who was
looking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, and
who shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, at
other times,