He seemed to crave Miss Martha's cheerful words.

He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never one of
her delicious Sally Lunns.

She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart ached
to add something good to eat to his meagre purchase, but her courage
failed at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the pride of
artists.

Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the
counter. In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quince
seeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion.

One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the
showcase, and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was
reaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging, and a
fire-engine came lumbering past.

The customer hurried to the door to look, as any one will. Suddenly
inspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity.

On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter
that the dairyman had left ten minutes before. With a bread knife
Miss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted
a generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again.

When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper around
them.

When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha
smiled to herself, but not without a slight fluttering of the heart.

Had she been too bold? Would he take offense? But surely not. There
was no language of edibles. Butter was no emblem of unmaidenly
forwardness.

For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She imagined
the scene when he should discover her little deception.

He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his easel
with the picture he was painting in which the perspective was beyond
criticism.

He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would
slice into a loaf--ah!

Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there
as he ate? Would he--

The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, making
a great deal of noise.

Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a young
man smoking a pipe--a man she had never seen before. The other was her
artist.

His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his
hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them
ferociously at Miss Martha. _At Miss Martha_.

"_Dummkopf!_" he sho