The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry

it seemed to Elias too good and too surprising to be true. So he chose to have it set forth in terms of positive affirmation.

      “Why, what are we talking about? But she might be got to sit for ye.”

      “You don't say so? Are you serious? How?”

      “Well, we're pretty well acquainted, she and I. I might propose it to her.”

      “Do—do, by all means. But is there any likelihood of her consenting?”

      “Why, yes, I guess she'd consent—that is, if I urged her.”

      “Oh, well, you will urge her, won't you?”

      The old man closed one eye, and twirled his mustache. “Hum; that depends. You must make it worth my while.”

      “Worth your while?” faltered Elias, surprised, and somewhat shocked, at discovering old Redwood to be so mercenary. “Well—well, what do you want?”

      “I want—let me see. Well, I guess I want the picture. You must make me a present of the picture.”

      “Oh, come; that's unreasonable.”

      “I thought you said you'd give your right hand I shouldn't have much use for that. So I'll take your handiwork, instead.”

      “That was a figure of speech. I'll pay a fair price, though. Name one that will satisfy you.”

      “I've just done so.”

      “Oh, but that's ridiculous.”

      “Well, that's the only price I'll talk about. And I'll tell you this, besides: she never'll sit for you at all, unless I advise her to. She sets great store by my opinion. You promise me the picture, and I'll guarantee you her consent.”

      “It's asking a great deal. It's asking far too much.”

      “All right. Then say no more about it.”

      “But—”

      “Oh, you can't beat me down, Mr. Bacharach. When I say a thing, I mean it. You'll only waste your breath, trying to haggle with me. The picture, or nothing—those are my terms.”

      Elias's eyes were full of the young girl's beauty; his ears still rang with the music of her laughter; the prospect that old Redwood held out was such an unexpected and such a tempting one: “So be it,” he said impulsively. “You shall have the picture.”

      “It's a bargain,” cried Redwood. “Shake on it.” After they had shaken hands: “When would you like to begin?”

      “At once—as soon as possible.”

      “I'll ask her to fix an early day.”

      “But are you sure? Is there no chance of her refusing?”

      “Now, haven't I given you my word? What you afraid of? The sittings, of course, will be had at her residence, not in your studio.”

      “Oh, of course. Just as she chooses about that. Is—is she an actress?”

      “An actress!” The old man laughed. “Bless you, no! What put that idea into your head?”

      “Oh, I don't know. I thought she might be. But her name—you haven't told me her name.”

      “Her name—Excuse me a minute,” said Redwood.

      He stepped to the door, stuck his head into the hall, and called at the top of his voice, “Chris … tine!”

      “Yes.”

      The word tinkled musically in the distance.

      “Come down here to the parlor, will ye?”

      “Yes, father.”

      Elias's pulse bounded. Did he indeed recognize the voice? What a ninny he had been making of himself! How inordinately dense, not to have guessed their relationship from old Redwood's assurance in answering for her. He felt awkward and embarrassed; and yet he felt a certain excitement that was not at all unpleasant.

      “Mr. Bacharach, permit me to make you acquainted with my daughter, Miss Christine Redwood,” said the old man.

      Elias bowed, but dared not look at her to whom he bowed. He heard her bid him a silvery good-evening. Then he stole a side glance. Yes, it was she, she of the golden locks.

      “Ha-ha-ha!” roared old Redwood. “Quite a surprise, eh, Mr. Bacharach?”

      “A—a delightful one, I'm sure,” stammered Elias.

      “Well, now, then, sit down, sit down, both of you,” the old man rattled on. “That's right. There, now we can proceed to business. Chris, Mr. Bacharach here, an old customer of mine, is a painter, an artist—with an especial eye to fine bits of coloring, hey, Mr. Bacharach?”

      “Oh,” Christine responded softly, her eyes brightening, and the pale rose tint deepening a little in her cheeks; “are you the Mr. Bacharach who painted that beautiful picture of Sister Helen at the last exhibition?”

      “It's very kind of you to call it beautiful,” said Elias, immensely surprised and flattered to find himself thus recognized by his work; especially flattered, because he spoke sincerely when he added, “I myself was discouraged about it. It's so entirely inadequate to the poem, you know.”

      “Why, it didn't seem so to me. On the contrary I never quite appreciated the poem till I saw your picture—never quite felt all the terror of it. I think you made it wonderfully vivid. I remember how she bent over the fire, and how fierce her eyes were, and how her hair streamed down her breast and shoulders; and then, the great, dark room, and the balcony, and the moonlight outside! Oh, I liked the picture—I can't tell you how much.”

      “Well,” broke in old Redwood, “you two seem to be old friends. I don't see as there was much use of my introducing you. But what I should like to know is, who was it a picture of? Whose Sister Helen?”

      “Why, Rossetti's,” explained Christine, laughing. “The heroine of one of Rossetti's poems.”

      “Oh, so,” said the old man, with an inflection of disappointment.

      “Are you fond of Rossetti, Miss Redwood?” Elias asked. “I noticed you had his volume on the table, when I came in.”

      “Oh, I adore him. Don't you? I think it's the most beautiful poetry that ever was written—though, to be sure, I haven't read all. But I don't know any body else that agrees with me—unless you do. Now, my father, for instance. I was reading one of the sonnets aloud to him this very evening—just before the bell rang. He—what do you suppose? He laughed at it, and called it rubbish.”

      “I did, for a fact,” admitted Redwood. “I can't get the hang of that rigmarol. It's too mixed up.”

      “Well, I don't pretend to understand everything Rossetti has written,” said Christine; “not every single line. But that's my fault, not his. Sometimes he's so very deep. But the sonnet I read to you to-night—it was the one about work and will awaking too late, to gaze upon their life sailed by, Mr. Bacharach—that wasn't the least bit difficult.”

      “Well,” Redwood confessed, “I like a poet who talks the English language straight. Shakespeare's good enough for me, and Longfellow. But Chris, here, she goes in for all the modern improvements, especially poetry. One day I found her purse lying on the parlor table. Think, s's I, I'll open it, to put in a little surprise. By George, sir, it was stuffed out to bursting with slips of poetry cut from the newspapers! And then, aestheticism! Oscar-Wildism, I call it. She's caught that, I don't know where; and she's got it bad. Actually, she wanted me to disfigure the hard finish of these walls, here, with one of those new-fangled, aesthetic papers. But the Lord blessed me with some hard sense; and so we manage to keep things pretty much as they air.”

      “Air” was Redwood's way of pronouncing “are,” when he wished to