At the Mercy of Tiberius | Page 6

a sort of claim on my heart."
Pausing an instant to adjust the tucker of her machine, Mrs. Emmet
looked up, and involuntarily the women shook hands, as if sealing a
compact.
It was a long walk to the building whither Beryl directed her steps, and
as she passed through the rear entrance of a large and fashionable
photograph establishment, she was surprised to find that it was
half-past two o'clock.
The Superintendent of the department, from whom she received her
work, was a man of middle-age, of rather stern and forbidding aspect;
and as she approached his desk, he pointed to the clock on the
mantel-piece.
"Barely time to submit those types for inspection, and have them
packed for the express going East. They are birthday gifts, and
birthdays have an awkward habit of arriving rigidly on time."
He unrolled the tissue paper, and with a magnifying glass, carefully
examined the pictures; then took from an envelope in the box, two
short pieces of hair, which he compared with the painted heads before
him.
"Beautifully done. The lace on that child's dress would bear even a
stronger lens than my glass. Here Patterson, take this box, and letter to
Mr. Endicott, and if satisfactory, carry them to the packing counter.
Shipping address is in the letter. Hurry up, my lad. Sit down, Miss
Brentano."
"Thank you, I am not tired. Mr. Mansfield, have you any good news for
me?"

"You mean those etchings; or the designs for the Christmas cards?
Have not heard a word, pro or con. Guess no news is good news; for I
notice 'rejected' work generally travels fast, to roost at home."
"I thought the awards were made last week, and that to-day you could
tell me the result."
"The awards have been made, I presume, but who owns the lucky cards
is the secret that has not yet transpired. You young people have no
respect for red tape, and methodical business routine. You want to clap
spurs on fate, and make her lower her own last record? 'Bide awee.
Bide awee'."
"Winning this prize means so much to me, that I confess I find it very
hard to be patient. Success would save me from a painful and expensive
journey, upon which I must start to-night; and therefore I hoped so
earnestly that I might receive good tidings to-day. I am obliged to go
South on an errand, which will necessitate an absence of several days,
and if you should have any news for me, keep it until I call again. If
unfavorable it would depress my mother, and therefore I prefer you
should not write, as of course she will open any letters addressed to me.
Please save all the work you can for me, and I will come here as soon
as I get back home."
"Very well. Any message, Patterson?"
"Mr. Endicott said, 'All right; first-rate;' and ordered them shipped."
"Here is your money, Miss Brentano. Better call as early as you can, as
I guess there will be a lot of photographs ready in a few days. Good
afternoon."
"Thank you. Good-bye, sir."
From the handful of small change, she selected some pennies which she
slipped inside of her glove, and dropping the remainder into her pocket,
left the building, and walked on toward Union Square. Absorbed in
grave reflections, and oppressed by some vague foreboding of

impending ill, dim, intangible and unlocalized--she moved slowly
along the crowded sidewalk--unconscious of the curious glances
directed toward her superb form, and stately graceful carriage, which
more than one person turned and looked back to admire, wondering
when she had stepped down from some sacred Panathenaic Frieze.
Near Madison Square, she paused before the window of a florist's, and
raising her veil, gazed longingly at the glowing mass of blossoms,
which Nineteenth Century skill and wealth in defiance of isothermal
lines, and climatic limitations force into perfection, in, and out of
season. The violet eyes and crocus fingers of Spring smiled and
quivered, at sight of the crimson rose heart, and flaming paeony cheeks
of royal Summer; and creamy and purple chrysanthemums that quill
their laces over the russet robes of Autumn, here stared in indignant
amazement, at the premature presumption of snowy regal camellias,
audaciously advancing to crown the icy brows of Winter. All latitudes,
all seasons have become bound vassals to the great God Gold; and his
necromancy furnishes with equal facility the dewy wreaths of orange
flowers that perfume the filmy veils of December brides--and the blue
bells of spicy hyacinths which ring "Rest" over the lily pillows, set as
tribute on the graves of babies, who wilt under August suns.
From early childhood, an ardent love of beauty had characterized this
girl, whose covetous gaze wandered from a gorgeous scarlet and