"I want to use you for a model this afternoon," he remarked one day as she was about to depart. "Braid your hair just as tight as you can, the way you had it the first day you came. Put on your high-necked, long- sleeved apron, and get it wet and soapy as it was that first day, and then come back to the studio with your scrubbing brush and pail."
Amarilly did as she was bidden with a reluctance which the artist, absorbed in his preparations for work, did not notice.
"Yes; that's fine," he said, glancing up as she came to him. "Now get down here on your knees by the—what kind of boards did you call them, Amarilly? Mopboards? Yes, that was it. Now try and put your whole mind on the memory of the horror you felt at the accumulation of dirt on that first day, and begin to scrub. Turn your head slightly toward me, tilted just a little—so—There, that's fine! Keep that position just as long and just as well as you possibly can."
Derry began to paint, mechanically at first, and then as he warmed to his subject and became interested in his conception, with rapidity and absorption.
"There!" he finally exclaimed, "you can rest now! This may be my chef- d'oeuvre, after all, Amarilly. Won't you be proud to be well hung in the Academy and have a group constantly before your picture. Why, what's the matter, child," springing to her side, "tears? I forgot it was your first experience in posing. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"
"I wan't tired," she half sobbed.
"Well, what is it? Tell me."
"I'm afeerd you'll laugh at me."
"Not on your life! And your word for to-day, Amarilly, is afraid.
Remember. Never afeerd."
"I'll remember," promised Amarilly meekly, as she wiped her dewy eyes.