V. 
A Service of Love. 
By OHervry 
IllxisLr aL e d h>y 
A K MACDONALD 
no 
HEN one loves one’s Art 
service seems too hard. 
That is our premise. This 
story shall draw a conclusion 
from it, and show at the same 
time that the premise is in- 
correct. That will be a new 
thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling some- 
what older than the great wall of China. 
Joe Larrabee came from the Middle West 
pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At 
six he drew a picture of the town pump with 
a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This 
effort was framed and hung in a shop window 
by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven 
number of rows. At twenty he left for New 
York with a flowing necktie and a capital 
tied up somewhat closer. 
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves 
so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the 
South that her relatives chipped in enough 
for her to go “ North ” and “finish.” They 
could not see her , but that is our story. 
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a 
number of art and music students had 
gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, 
music, Rembrandt’s works, pictures, Wald- 
teufel, wall-paper, Chopin, and Oolong. 
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of 
the other, or each of the other, as you please, 
and in a short time were married, for (sec 
above) when one loves one’s Art no service 
seems too hard. 
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping 
in a flat. It was a lonesome flat, something 
like the A sharp down at the left-hand 
end of the keyboard. And they were happy, 
for they had their Art, and they had each other. 
And my advice to the rich young man would 
be, sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor— 
