When Evarne next opened her eyes she was lying cosily enough in bed. What a strange troubled sleep she had had, so full of confused dreams! Instantly came a fear of oversleeping, and she made an effort to rise. But the attempt was vain; even her half-opened lids were insupportably heavy. Languidly she let them droop, and then knew nothing more until a spoon was placed to her lips, and she felt some warm liquid meandering down her throat. At this the heavy lids were lifted widely in astonishment.

"Bravo! My pretty dolly is made to open its eyes!" cried a cheery voice, and there by her side was old Mrs. Harbert, gazing at her smilingly.

Evarne looked slowly around. This was not her own room—no—all those artist's studies—where was it? Then she remembered. She must surely be in Mrs. Harbert's own domain.

Her lips shaped the words, "What am I doing here?"

"Ah, ha! My dolly talks," was the only answer she received.

The girl tried to arouse herself further, but enthralled by a heavy lethargy, she abandoned the attempt, and gradually fell asleep once more.

When next she awoke the sharp sound of a falling cup had aroused her more thoroughly. She lifted her head slightly from the pillow. There stood Mrs. Smithkins, looking at her with much concern.

"Lor' now, I do 'ope I 'aven't done no 'arm by wakin' yer up!"

"Am I ill?" whispered Evarne.

"You've bin at death's door," impressively replied Mrs. Smithkins, with obvious satisfaction.

"I remember. I was going downstairs. Did I fall? Tell me everything."

"The doctor says yer ain't to speak."

"You talk; I'll listen."

Nothing loath, Mrs. Smithkins set to and related the story. It appeared that everybody in the house had run from their rooms at the sound of Evarne's terrible tumble, and, lifting up her unconscious form, had laid her upon Mrs. Harbert's bed—the nearest at hand. Her forehead, which was cut and bleeding, had been promptly tied up. But neither lavish sprinkling of water, draughts of undiluted gin, the burning of feathers nor the tickling of her palms, had sufficed to bring her to her senses, so the parish doctor had been called in. He had said a lot of things none of the hearers had been able to properly understand, but finally had said clearly enough that it would be weeks ere she was well again.

Mrs. Harbert had undertaken to nurse her, and, according to Mrs. Smithkins, had fulfilled this promise like an angel of light. Sometimes she had been forced to be absent for the best part of the day about her work, but she had always prepared the invalid's diet beforehand, and Mrs. Smithkins had administered it. The doctor had been ever so many times! Once he even came twice in one day! As to Evarne's room upstairs, it was let to somebody else. A man from the firm had come and taken away the sewing machine, her bed was here—Mrs. Harbert now slept on it—her chair and table and other belongings were on the landing upstairs.

Left alone, Evarne lay awake for hours pondering. She half regretted that she had not died; that would so have simplified matters. Now she had the future to worry about once more; and she felt positively overwhelmed by the knowledge of her poor old neighbour's extraordinary charity. When evening fell, and Mrs. Harbert entered very softly on tiptoe, Evarne greeted her, feeling quite embarrassed by the extent of this debt of gratitude.

"Why, my dolly is quite well agin, the Lord be praised," declared the old woman, beaming all over her face.

Placing on a chair the packed market-basket she carried, she proceeded to lay its contents one by one on the table.

"I've got something for yer," she declared, triumphantly holding up a couple of volumes. "I bought 'em from an old bookstall. 'Rose Leaves or Strawberry Leaves? A Romance of Society.' That sounds real exciting, and will amuse 'er, thinks I, and then 'Gull—Gully somebody's Travels.' That will be instructive, and will educate 'er mind."

"Mrs. Harbert, you are far, far too good to me. I shall never be able to thank you properly."

"Yer can't do nothin' properly till yer gits well, and the doctor—nice old chap 'e is too—says yer ain't to talk."

"Doctors always say that. Why are you so kind to me?"

"'Cause I likes it. My gosh, 'ere am I, a lonely old woman, and when 'Eaven drops a nice-spoken pretty gal, bang splosh at my very front door, d'you think I was goin' to just git out my broom and sweep 'er away? That ain't Philadelphia 'Arbert."

"I'll get well quickly now, not to cause you any more trouble."

"''E goes quickest who takes time by the nose,' as Shakespeare says."

Evarne smiled.

"How did you come to study Shakespeare?"

"It was this way. Yer know, my dear, I'm a hartist's model. All these pictures on the wall are me. I showed 'em to yer once before, didn't I? My gosh, when I was a gal—a young woman—I was real lovely. But yer can see that for yourself, though these 'ere pictures is only students' work, and don't do me real credit. Still, jist notice my shapely legs in this one. Nice bust too, eh! See my back 'ere—there's a fine straight back for yer. Every great hartist painted me in them days. I was a regular queen among 'em—'eaps more work offered me than I could manage. There was one gentleman—oh, a real nice gentleman 'e was too, pore dear, 'e's dead now—and 'e used to 'ave Shakespeare read out to 'im all the time 'e worked. I often posed for 'im, and as I've got a good memory I picked it up, and bits of it is always comin' into my mind. My gosh, Miss Stornway, I tell yer it do make the other old gals in this 'ouse that jealous! I'm always sittin' on 'em with my quotes, and they can't do nothin' but keep their hignorant old tongues still and look silly."

Thus she rattled on, meantime proceeding to prepare the evening meal for herself and her charge.

Days passed, and having once started upon her convalescence, Evarne gained strength rapidly. At the end of a week she was able to leave her bed. The colour and contour gradually returned to her pale, thin cheeks, the brightness to her eye, all her marvellous beauty blossomed forth afresh. At the end of a fortnight she was strong enough to take her first outing in the form of a short ride on the top of a 'bus.

On returning from this expedition she lay down while Mrs. Harbert made tea, and over the genial beverage the old woman for the first time consented to discuss future plans. Evarne had two or three various suggestions to bring forward, but Mrs. Harbert would not even listen.

"There's only one sensible thing for yer to do, Evarne, my gal, and that's to follow in my footsteps. Needlework and sich-like may be all right for some, but for you—why, it's jist a wicked waste of Gawd's gifts. Now, I'll tell yer, when yer was ill and me and Smithkins was givin' my dolly a bath, I says to 'er, I says, 'My gosh, what a lovely gal!' and Smithkins she says——Now, whatever are yer blushin' for, my dear? You are a real lovely gal, and I speaks as one who knows what's what. I never seemed to notice it when yer was bundled up in clothes; that's the way with the best of us, we never appears to advantage in togs. It's the skinny women with waists the size of their ankles, what no hartist would so much as look at; or them females as is bundles of fat what wouldn't look human if they wasn't packed up tidy into corsets—they're the sort what looks best in their clothes. Beautiful women like you and me looks better and better as we undresses more and more. You'll make a fortune as a model, and you'll be a bigger fool than I take yer for if yer chucks away that fortune."

Evarne remained silent, pondering over this suggestion. Instant objections sprang to her mind, but at the same time came the conviction that here indeed was a means of earning a livelihood for which she was undeniably well qualified. Her own experience as an artist had taught her both the value and the rarity of a figure, beautiful from an artistic point of view. At the same time....

Mrs. Harbert broke in upon her reflections.

"Perhaps yer was thinkin' it ain't proper."

But the girl shook her head immediately.

"No," she declared. "I studied Art myself, and painted from the nude, when I was better off, so I should have got rid of any ideas of that sort, even if I had ever had them; but I never had. I was just thinking that it really was a brilliant notion of yours, but that I didn't quite like it somehow. Still, I believe that if you hadn't spoken just then, I should have gone on to reflect that beggars can't be choosers."

"Ah, Shakespeare! But why don't yer like it, if yer ain't shocked? It's the nicest profession in the world. Takes yer among sich 'igh-class people—real ladies and gentlemen—and into sich nice warm rooms. And what's more, yer can go on till yer are as old as old—as a costume model anyway. Of course, while you're young, the sun shines, and yer bucks up and makes yer 'ay accordin'. Yer can earn pounds a week sometimes, quite easy. Look at me—I'm a middle-aged one now, yet I makes a pretty fair livin' by it, and don't overwork myself neither."

"How would I start to get work? Is it difficult to get up a connection?" inquired the girl dubiously.

"Not for the likes of you. You'd only 'ave to show yerself. But yer still looks ill, and you're ever so weak. You've got to be strong to 'stand,' I can tell yer. 'Tain't no use beginnin' yet. I wish we could git yer away to the seaside.

"I'll get well quickly in London now—I will really. I'll go out into the parks every day for fresh air, and be as strong as ever I was in no time. You shall see."

She duly followed this prescription, with the result prophesied. It had been inexpressibly painful to feel that she was being maintained by this hard-working old woman, upon whom she had not the slightest claim, and at the same time to doubt her power of ever making due recompense. Now, with a mind at ease once more as to the future, the open air, the rest, and the ample though simple diet were free to fulfil their good work. In less than a fortnight Mrs. Harbert was able to declare her protÉgÉe to be blooming as a rose, and a picture unpainted.

Accordingly she set about finding an engagement for the girl, and one morning, a week or two later, she watched Evarne set off for an advanced and important Art school, armed with good courage, a packet of sandwiches and some sage advice.

"Nobody guesses it's yer first sittin', me dear, and nobody won't take no notice of yer if yer don't tell 'em. Walk out of the dressin'-room as bold as brass, and grumble under yer breath at the pose the master chooses, no matter what it is. If you won't come when 'e calls, or run back agin, or act the fool in any way what ain't usual with models, they'll all remember you're a human bein', and stare at yer, anxious to know what's the matter. Then, likely enough, you would feel rather put out of countenance."

"I'm not going to be silly at all," Evarne had declared with conviction; and sure enough, when she returned in the evening she was able to state that the entire day had gone off satisfactorily.

She had not expected to be much troubled by inopportune bashfulness, and when she found herself again in a studio, beheld the easels and drawing-boards, canvases and palettes, smelt the characteristic odours and heard the familiar artistic jargon of the students, she had felt herself to be an acolyte in a temple wherein was worshipped the perpetuation of the beautiful. The influence of modern thought and custom had fallen from her with her garments, and she had adored her own fairness.

"I'm sorry if it sounds immodest," she confessed, "but indeed I only felt happy to be in the atmosphere of Art once more. I knew that those young men, who all seemed so much in earnest, would learn much from painting me—for it was a very charming pose—and somehow I felt interested in everyone, and as if I wanted them all to get on, and was glad to be able to help them to progress a little. Oh, Mrs. Harbert! Somehow I feel that if only I came across a real artist—a grand man, you know, but young, who hadn't found himself yet, so to speak—I could inspire him to do such wonderful work, to paint pictures he had never dreamed of before. I don't fancy I should ever have been much of an artist myself, even if I'd been able to keep on—perhaps I should though! Anyhow, I know I have got something in my heart or mind, or something vague of that sort, that I could give out to another if he could receive it, and had some of the impulse I'm talking about of his own, and then he would be able to do what otherwise he would never be able to do.... I am getting dreadfully incoherent, but I know what I mean myself. Did you ever feel anything like what I've been describing?"

The old woman would not commit herself to a direct answer.

"It's a blessing yer looks at it in that light," she commented.

But nothing could possibly have surpassed Mrs. Harbert's real opinion of the importance of the part played by the model in the production of any picture of worth, so she was fully sympathetic, no matter to what heights the girl might soar on the topic.

And now Evarne found that she had indeed alighted upon a profession in which she had little to fear for competition, neither did she require much more aid from Mrs. Harbert. Before her fortnight at the Art school was completed, she had already obtained another engagement.

"It's the elder sister of one of the young men," she explained gleefully. "The youth seems to have waxed somewhat enthusiastic about me; so much so that his sister, who is an artist, came down to the school to see the wonder with her own eyes. She wants me to start sitting for her next Monday. Am I not fortunate? She seemed such a nice woman, and her brother says she paints beautifully. I am so pleased about it."

And this success was only the beginning. Ere long Evarne found herself the proud recipient of more offers than she could possibly accept. Allowing herself to be guided by the experienced Mrs. Harbert, she discriminated among them, and also gradually raised her terms. Nevertheless, work continued to flow in unceasingly; very rarely was there even half a week day that she could regard as a holiday.

As time passed she became quite well known in the artistic world, and sometimes even fulfilled particularly well-paid engagements out of London. Not only was the girl absolutely delightful to the eye, both in face and form, but many an artist found her presence in his studio to be strangely valuable. It was her sympathy with any aspiring worker—the keen interest she took in the picture on hand—quite as much as her quick understanding, her almost intuitive divination of its creator's ideas, unexpressed thoughts and half-conceived fancies, that gave her a unique power that the painters themselves were quick to feel. Her own artistic instincts and her studio training had given her the gift of falling easily and instinctively into poses full of grace and expression. Quite frequently too, studying the half-completed work, ideas would come to her which, with a gentle diffidence, she would suggest—usually to find her thought taken advantage of to the vast benefit of the picture. Unquestionably Evarne had found her vocation at last.

Had she been plunged into the career of a model immediately upon leaving her petted, luxurious life with Morris Kenyon, she would probably have considered it as a truly miserable lot—and herself as a victim of cruel fate. But her descent in the social scale had been so gradual, and had led to such an abyss of abject poverty and humiliation before she had almost groped her way into the next world by the gateway of starvation, that this new existence shone brightly by comparison.

Occasionally she would smile just a little bitterly on comparing her early dreams of artistic fame with the reality of settling down contentedly enough to serving as a mere accessory in the production of pictures. But she had never been genuinely ambitious, and the pang was not severe. Besides, the counsels of Socrates could step in at such moments, and bring contentment and resignation. Poverty she feared and hated, but now that came not near her. True, sweet luxury was also but a memory of the past, but she was well able to live in perfect comfort.

The five years that followed her adoption of this new profession were successful, prosperous, and, in their way, happy. Her beauty was not of the type that wanes with girlhood—each year brought added graces. Her path through life was encompassed with affection, good-will, regard. She made a circle of acquaintances for herself—bohemian, but bright, kindly and amusing. In every studio she entered she was admired instantly and respected ere long. Both men and women artists were considerate and friendly towards the stately young model, and this was all that she desired.

In those five years more than a few men fell captive beneath her subtle charm, but never a one could gain her love, and she ruthlessly made it clear that she regarded unwanted masculine devotion as the most useless and undesirable thing on earth. Neither did the wealth and good position of at least one of her honourable suitors affect her. Evarne was true to her heart, as she had ever been.

She was unfailing in friendship and gratitude towards the old woman to whom she owed so much of her present calm contentment. Very speedily she had discharged her monetary debts to Philia—for so she affectionately abbreviated Mrs. Philadelphia Harbert's somewhat ponderous first name—but that was not all.

Her first upward step had been to move into a couple of rooms in a neighbouring house, furnishing them gradually in a manner pleasing to her taste. After a year or so she grew ambitious, and inviting Philia to join forces with her, migrated to Chelsea. There she took a little house in a poor yet eminently respectable street. Her new domain had a tiny garden in front, a yet tinier grass plot behind, and contained four rooms and a kitchen. True, there was no room for the proverbial swinging of a cat, but Evarne was touchingly proud of her little home, and spent money upon its furnishing with truly extravagant abandon.

Old Philia's engagements as a model had for years past been somewhat difficult to obtain, and as Evarne waxed wealthier, so Philia had fallen into low water. It was accordingly arranged between them, on their first deciding to live together, that when the elder woman was actually earning money she should pay somewhat towards the expenses of their joint establishment. At other times it was to be regarded as fully equivalent if she undertook to prepare breakfast and supper for Evarne, the principal breadwinner and rent-payer; to superintend the labour of the occasional charwoman, and generally to see to the little home being kept neat and clean and cosy.

As time passed, Philia almost entirely abandoned posing, and devoted herself to domestic labours. Evarne delighted in being looked after, tended and made much of, so she was well content with this state of affairs. As to Philia, she found herself absolutely happy in her old age, and was given to quoting imaginary passages from Shakespeare largely, to show that her first disinterested kindness towards her poor young upstairs neighbour had been as bread cast on the waters, which was now returning itself in the form of cake.