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Show ! A PATHON OF THE. ARTS t And a Loyal Patron She Was, Only the Art She Sup- ported Was but Deception By ELEANOR PORTER Author of "Pollyanna," "Just David," Etc. Copyright by Eleanor H. Porter. ,.A41ii TWTRS. LIVINGSTONE adored art Art with a capital A, not the ilnd whose sign-manual is the inllk-:ng-stool or a beribboned picture frame. The family had lived for some :lme in a shabby-genteel house on Beacon Hill, ever since, indeed, Mrs. Livingstone had insisted on her hus-oand's hus-oand's leaving the town of his birth ind moving to Boston the center of 4.rt (according to Mrs. Livingstone). Ilere she attended the Symphony :oncerts (on twenty-five cent tickets), and prattled knowingly of Mozart and Beethoven ; and here she listened to Patti or Bernhardt from the third balcony bal-cony of the Boston theatre. To be sure, she occasionally read a oovel or a book of poems a trifle less ancient in character, but never unless the world had rung with the author's praises for at least a score of years. The stamp of Time's approval was absolutely necessary to the aspirant after Mrs. Livingstone's approbation. Indeed, there was only one of the present-day celebrities who interested die good lady at all, but that one attracted at-tracted with a power that compensated compen-sated for any lack in the others. Of course lie was famous he had been for thirty years. She called him the "Inimitable One," and set him up 5. St MseH frj "Isn't This House Owned by a Very Famous Man?" In her heart and groveled Joyfully at his feet. She bought each of his books when published, whether she had shoes to her feet or clothes to her back. Mrs. Livingstone's husband was only an ordinary being who knew nothing whatever of Art; and it was a relief to her and perhaps to him, poor man when he departed this life, and left her to an artistic widowhood with anything but an artistic Income if size counts in Art. But one must eat, and one must wear clothes (in chilly, civilized Boston, at least), and Mrs. Livingstone suddenly realized that something must be done toward supplying sup-plying these necessities of life for herself her-self and her young daughter, Mabel. It was at about this time that there came a sharp ring at the doorbell, and a stout man with smaH, but very bright black eyes asked to see Mrs. Livingstone. "I have come, my dear madam, on a matter of business," said he suavely; suave-ly; "and though I am a stranger' to you, you certainly are not one to me. I said 'business,' madam, yet I and the one for whom I am speaking are so anxious that you should look favorably favor-ably upon our proposition that I had almost said that I had come to ask a favor." Mrs. Livingstone relaxed from the forbidding aspect she had assumed, und looked mildly interested. "A gentleman wishes to leave his house In your charge, madam. Tha house Is advertised for sale, and from time to time parties' may wish to see It. He would like it to he In the care of someone who will understand how-to how-to show It to the best advantage, you see." Mrs. Livingstone's bnck straightened, straight-ened, and her chin rose perceptibly. Had she come to this a common caretaker? care-taker? And yet there was Mabel. Something must certainly be done. "Who Is this man?" she asked aggressively; ag-gressively; and then she almost started from her chair as the name fell from the other's lips it was that borne by the Inimitable One. "That man 1" she exclaimed breathlessly. breath-lessly. "That famous creature with the world at his feet !" The stout gentleman opposite smiled, and his little eyes narrowed to mere 11U of light. He had counted on this. Us employer was Indeed famous i-ry famous, though perhaps not In . wu this good lady supposed. It j was not the first time he had traded on this convenient similarity of names. "I thought, madam, we had made no mistake. I was sure you would deem It a privilege. And as for us, your keen appreciative sense of the fitness of things will er will make it a favor to us If you comply with our request," said he, floundering In helpless help-less confusion for a moment. But Mrs. Livingstone did not notice. She went through the rest of that Interview In-terview in a dazed, ecstatic wonder. She only knew at Its conclusion that she was to go up to Vermont to care v,r Hio hnnsp to live in the rooms that He had lived in, to rest where He had rested, to walk where He had walked, to see what He had seen. And she was to receive pay money for this blissful privilege. Incredible I It did not take Mrs. Livingstone long to make all necessary arrangements. arrange-ments. As they stepped from the train to the platform at the little country" station, sta-tion, Mrs. Livingstone looked about her with awed interest. He had been here! The jouncing yellow stage coach became a hallowed golden char-lot, char-lot, and the ride to the house a sacred pilgrimage. "Only think, Mabel, He walked here, and sat here." said the woman ador ingly, suiting the action to the word and sinking into a great Morris chair. Mabel sniffed her disdain. "I presume so ; but I should like to know where he ate maybe he left something 1" Mrs. Livingstone rose in despairing resignation. The next few days were a dream of bliss to Mrs. Livingstone. The house was a handsome mansion set well back from the street, and surrounded by beautiful grounds which were kept in order by a man who came two or three times a week to attend to them. Mrs. Livingstone had but herself and Mabel to care for, and she performed the work of the house as a high-priestess high-priestess might have attended upon the altars of her gods. It was on the fifth day that a growing wonder in the mind of Mrs. Livingstone found voice. "Mabel, there isn't one of His works In the house not one. I've been everywhere I" said the woman plaintively. plaint-ively. "Well, mother," laughed the girl saucily, "that's the most sensible thinj I ever knew of the man. I don't wonder won-der he didn't want them round I shouldn't !" "Mabel 1" "Well, I shouldn't!" And Mabel laughed wickedly while her mother sighed at the outspoken heresy. It was piain that Mabel had no soul. Mrs. Livingstone was furthermore surprised at her Idol's taste In art ; some of the pictures on the wall were a distinct shock to her. The house was to be sold completely furnished, with the exception of the books and pictures. The price was high, and there were but few prospective prospec-tive purchasers. Occasionally people came to see the property; such Mrs. Livingstone conducted about the house with reverent Impressiveness. "It is something to buy a house owned by so famous a man," she Insinuated Insin-uated gently one day, after vainly trying to awaken a proper enthusiasm in a prim little woman who was talking talk-ing of purchasing. "Indeed!" replied the other, frigidly. "Do you think so? I must confess it is somewhat of a drawback to me." And from that time Mrs. Livingstone wore an Injured air the young mother's moth-er's baby had been snubbed grievously griev-ously snubbed. Toward the last of the summer a wild plan entered Mrs. Livingstone's brain ; and after some days of trembling trem-bling consideration, she determined to carry it out. The morning mall bore a letter from her to the Inimitable One through his publishers. She had learned that he was ta be In Boston, and she had written to beg him to come up to his old home raid see If It was being cared for to his satisfaction. satisfac-tion. The moments drugged as though weighted with lead until the answer came. When at last It was In her 1 hands, she twisted a halrptn under the flap of the envelope and tore out the letter with shaking fingers. It was from the Inimitable One's private secretary. The Inimitable One did not understand her letter he was the owner of no house In Vermont; there was doubtless some mistake' That was all. The communication was wholly enigmatic. The letter fluttered to the floor, and Mrs. Livingstone's dazed eyes rested on the gardener in the lawn below In a moment she was at his side. "Peter, isn't this houso owned by n Tery famous man?" "Indude It Is, ma'am." "Who Is he?" she demanded shortly holding her breath until that fnmlllai name borne by the Inimitable Onf passed the other's lips. "Well, Peter, Isn't he the writer' What does he do for a living?" 8i faltered, still mystified.' "Do? He fights, ma'am. He's th big prlzeflghtor that won ls was talking to empty air. The worn ' had find. . |