"Early! It's seven o'clock."

"I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours."

"Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet."

"And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?"

"I'll be keerful," Amarilly a.s.sured him. "Jest show me whar to het up the water. I brung the soap and a brush."

The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long- sleeved ap.r.o.n, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes shone with antic.i.p.ation as she looked about her.

"I'm glad it's so dirty," she remarked. "It's more interestin' to clean a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your money."

With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three hours later.

"This room is all cleaned," announced Amarilly. "It took me so long 'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty."

"You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I prepare my breakfast."

"Kin you cook?" asked Amarilly in astonishment.

"I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and watch me."

Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the mysteries of electric toasters and percolators.

He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she protested.

"I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon."

"Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not cling to ironclad rules."

"My name's Amarilly," she answered shortly. "I ain't old enough to be 'missed' yet."

"I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age," he replied, sitting down to his breakfast, "You are not too old, then, for me to ask what your age is--in years?"

"I jest got into my teens."

"Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?"

"It's ben. It was the fust of June."

"Why, Amarilly," jumping up and holding out his hand, "we are twins!

That is my birthday."

"And you are twenty-three."

"Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger."

"Be you a Christian Science?" she asked doubtfully.

"Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?"

"'Cause they don't believe in age. Miss Jupperskin told me about 'em.

She's workin' up to it. But I must go back to my work."

"So must I, Amarilly. My model will be here in a few moments to don your surplice. If you want to clean up my breakfast dishes you may do so, and then tackle the bedroom and the rest of the apartment."

Three hours later, Amarilly went into the studio. The model had gone, and the artist stood before his easel surveying his sketch with approval.

"This is going to be a good picture, Amarilly. The model caught my idea.

There is some fore--"

"Mr. Phillips!"

"My name is Derry. I am too young to be 'mistered.'"

There was no response, and with a smile he turned inquiringly toward her. There was a wan little droop about the corners of her eyes and lips that brought contrition to his boyish heart.

"Amarilly you are tired! You have worked too steadily. Sit down and rest awhile."

"'Tain't that! I'm hungry. Kin I het up the coffee and--"

"Good gracious, Amarilly! I forgot you ate at regular, stated intervals.

We will go right out now to a nice little restaurant near by and eat our luncheon together."

Amarilly flushed.

"Thank you, Mr. Derry. That's orful nice in you, but I'd ruther eat here. Thar's the toast and coffee to het, and an aig--"

"No! You are going to have a good, square meal and eat it with me. You see I had to eat my birthday dinner all alone, so we'll celebrate the first of June now, together. Slip off your ap.r.o.n. By the way, some day I shall paint a picture of you in that ap.r.o.n scrubbing my 'mopboard.'"

Amarilly shook her head.

"I don't look fit to go nowhars with you, Mr. Derry."

"Vanitas, and the rest of it! Oh, Amarilly, only thirteen, and the ruling pa.s.sion of your s.e.x already in full sway!"

"It's on your account that I'm ashamed," she said in defence of his accusation. "I'd want ter look nice fer you."

"That's sweet of you, Amarilly; but if you really want to look nice, don't think of your clothes. It's other things. Think of your hair, for instance. It's your best point, and yet you hide it under a bushel and, worse than that, you braid it so tight I verily believe it's wired."

"I'm used to bein' teased about my red head," she replied. "I don't keer."

"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is called 't.i.tian-haired,'"

"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.

"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it, all four of those skin-tight braids."