He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out.

Yes, he must be an artist.  Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.

How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles!  What a broad brow he had!  To be able to judge perspective at a glance—­and to live on stale bread!  But genius often has to struggle before it is recognized.

What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backed by two thousand dollars in bank, a bakery, and a sympathetic heart to—­ But these were day-dreams, Miss Martha.

Often now when he came he would chat for a while across the showcase.  He seemed to crave Miss Martha’s cheerful words.

He kept on buying stale bread.  Never a cake, never a pie, never one of her delicious Sally Lunns.

She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged.  Her heart ached to add something good to eat to his meagre purchase, but her courage failed at the act.  She did not dare affront him.  She knew the pride of artists.

Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the counter.  In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quince seeds and borax.  Ever so many people use it for the complexion.

One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the showcase, and called for his stale loaves.  While Miss Martha was reaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging, and a fire-engine came lumbering past.

The customer hurried to the door to look, as any one will.  Suddenly inspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity.

On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter that the dairyman had left ten minutes before.  With a bread knife Miss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again.

When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper around them.

When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha smiled to herself, but not without a slight fluttering of the heart.

Had she been too bold?  Would he take offense?  But surely not.  There was no language of edibles.  Butter was no emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.

For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject.  She imagined the scene when he should discover her little deception.

He would lay down his brushes and palette.  There would stand his easel with the picture he was painting in which the perspective was beyond criticism.

He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water.  He would slice into a loaf—­ah!

Miss Martha blushed.  Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate?  Would he—­

The front door bell jangled viciously.  Somebody was coming in, making a great deal of noise.

Miss Martha hurried to the front.  Two men were there.  One was a young man smoking a pipe—­a man she had never seen before.  The other was her artist.