The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry

waited for her to go on, but she did not go on. With a sense of deep discouragement, he concluded that he had entered a cul-de-sac. He must begin anew, and upon another topic.

      Presently, “I hope you are not getting tired,” he said. “Don't hesitate to rest as often as you like.”

      “Oh, thank you, no; I'm not tired yet,” she answered.

      “Generally,” he announced, standing off, closing one eye, and taking an observation over the end of his crayon, “generally people who aren't used to it, find sitting very irksome; and even regular models, whose business it is, want to get up every now and then, and stretch themselves. But the painter himself never wearies.”

      “Because he is so interested in his work, I suppose?”

      “Yes, of course. Why, sometimes, of a summer day, I've painted for thirteen or fourteen hours at a stretch—from dawn till sunset—and then only been sorry that I could paint no more.”

      “It must be delightful to have an occupation like that—one that is a constant source of pleasure. It's the same, isn't it, with all kinds of artists—with musicians and sculptors?”

      “Yes, and writers. I know a man who is a writer—writes stories and poems and that sort of thing—and his wife says she has to use main force to get him to leave his manuscripts. Writers have the advantage of painters in one respect—they don't need daylight. Indeed, I think many of them like lamp-light better. The lamp is sort of emblematic of their calling, just as the palette is of ours. I have read somewhere of quite a celebrated novelist—I forget his name—an Englishman, I believe—who shuts his blinds, and lights the gas, and works by gaslight even in broad day. That's curious, isn't it?”

      “And foolish, besides; because they say it's very unhealthful and very bad for the eyes. I should think his novels would be awfully morbid.”

      “I used to paint by gaslight when I was at the League. But I don't any more. It doesn't pay. In the daytime your colors all look false and unwholesome—hectic—as if they had the consumption. Of course, if you're merely sketching, or working in black and white, it's different.”

      “Did you study at the League?”

      “Yes; and also under Stainar, in his studio.”

      “Stainar? At Paris?”

      “Oh, no; in New York. What little I know I have learned here in New York.”

      “Why, I thought every body had to study abroad—at Paris or Munich or Düsseldorf.”

      “They don't exactly have to. You can get very good instruction here. Stainar is a capital master; and there are others. Of course, it's desirable to study abroad, too. But I couldn't very well. I have never been further than fifty or a hundred miles from this city in my life.”

      “Why, how strange! I haven't either. But then, I'm a girl. You're a man. I should think you would have traveled.”

      “It was on account of my mother. She was a great stay-at-home; and I never felt like leaving her. Since her death—two years ago—I haven't had any wish to travel. I haven't had the heart for it.”

      After a little pause, Christine asked softly, “Have you any brothers or sisters?”

      “No, none. And my father died when I was a baby. So, except for me, my mother was quite alone. To be sure, she had my uncle, the rabbi; but he's not much company.”

      “Oh, have you an uncle who is a rabbi?”

      “Yes—Dr. Gedaza, of the Congregation Gates of Pearl, in Seventeenth Street.”

      “How interesting! Tell me, what is he like?”

      “Why, I don't know. How do you mean?”

      “What does he look like? And his character?”

      “Well, he's a little old gentleman, a widower. He wears spectacles, and he's got a bald head. He knows an' awful lot of theology, but in point of worldly wisdom he's as deficient as a child. Sometimes he's fairly good-natured, sometimes very severe. Generally he's absent-minded—up in the clouds.”

      “Has he a long white beard?”

      “He has a beard; but it's neither long nor white. It's short and black—though there may be a few white hairs scattered through it. There ought to be, considering his age. He's—Let me see. He's ten years older than my mother; and she was thirty years older than I. That would make him sixty-six.”

      “I have never seen a rabbi; but I always thought they had long white beards, and wore gowns, and looked mysterious and awe-inspiring, like astrologers or alchemists.”

      “There's nothing mysterious about my uncle,” said Elias, laughing, “unless it be his prodigious learning; and nothing awe-inspiring, except his temper. That's pretty quick. He wears an ordinary black coat and white cravat, like a Protestant minister's. You'd take him for a Protestant minister if you should pass him in the street.”

      “And he isn't at all patriarchal or picturesque?”

      “Alas, no; not that I have been able to discover.”

      “Oh, dear; how disappointing!”

      After another little pause, Christine said: “I haven't any brothers or sisters, either; and my mother died when I was three years old; and my father is a great home-body, too. Isn't it strange that our lives should have been so much alike? Only, you're a man and an artist; and I'm a girl and have nothing to do but to keep house. I wish I loved housekeeping as you do painting. But I don't; I hate it.”

      “That's too bad. But then, it doesn't take up all your time, and it doesn't cause you such an endless deal of worry and discouragement as painting does. You have plenty of time left in which to read, and see your friends, and enjoy life.”

      “Oh, no, I don't. You have no idea how many miserable little things there are to be done. And we only keep one servant. And she's so stupid that I have to be standing over her all day long. It's like a regular business—almost.”

      She had thrown a good deal of feeling into these utterances; had emphasized them by bending forward, and lifting her face toward her hearer's; and by this time she was completely out of pose.

      Didn't she think she'd like to rest a little now? Elias asked.

      She thought she would like to, for a few minutes, she said; and getting up, she crossed over and looked at Elias's canvas. All she could see were a few straggling charcoal lines.

      “Oh,” she queried, “is that the way you begin?”

      “Yes; I must sketch every thing in in black, first.”

      “But how long will that take?”

      “That depends upon how often you let me come.”

      “Well, if you come every Sunday?”

      “Oh, it will take three or four weeks—may be more.”

      “And then, how long before the picture will be finished?”

      “I can't tell exactly; but if we only have one sitting a week, probably not till spring.”

      “Oh,” she said, and said it with an inflection which Elias construed to be that of disappointment.

      “Why, did you wish to have it finished earlier?” he asked.

      “Oh, no; I don't care about that. I wasn't thinking of that,” she answered, but still with an inflection which made Elias feel that her contentment had been disturbed. He wondered whether he had said any thing indiscreet, any thing to hurt or to offend her. He could remember nothing.

      She resumed her pose. He could not have told what it was, but there was something in her bearing which prompted him to ask: “Is the position uncomfortable?”