Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on thecorner （the one where you go up three steps， and the belltinkles when you open the door）.
Miss Martha was forty， her bank-book showed a creditof two thousand dollars， and she possessed two false teethand a sympathetic heart. Many people have married whosechances to do so were much inferior to Miss Martha’s.
Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom shebegan to take an interest. He was a middle-aged man， wearingspectacles and a brown beard trimmed to a careful point.
He spoke English with a strong German accent. Hisclothes were worn and darned in places， and wrinkled andbaggy in others. But he looked neat， and had very goodmanners.
He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh breadwas five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Neverdid he call for anything but stale bread.
Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on hisfingers. She was sure then that he was an artist and verypoor. No doubt he lived in a garret， where he paintedpictures and ate stale bread and thought of the goodthings to eat in Miss Martha’s bakery.
Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops andlight rolls and jam and tea she would sigh， and wish that thegentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal insteadof eating his dry crust in that draughty attic. Miss Martha’sheart， as you have been told， was a sympathetic one.
In order to test her theory as to his occupation， shebrought from her room one day a painting that she hadbought at a sale， and set it against the shelves behind thebread counter.
It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio （soit said on the picture） stood in the foreground —or ratherforewater. For the rest there were gondolas （with the ladytrailing her hand in the water）， clouds， sky， and chiarooscuroin plenty. No artist could fail to notice it.
Two days afterward the customer came in.
“Two loafs of stale bread， if you blease.
“You haf here a fine bicture， madame，” he said while shewas wrapping up the bread.
“Yes？” says Miss Martha， reveling in her own cunning. “Ido so admire art and” （no， it would not do to say “artists”
thus early） “and paintings，” she substituted. “You think itis a good picture？”
“Der balance，” said the customer， is not in good drawing.
Der bairspective of it is not true. “Goot morning， madame.”
He took his bread， bowed， and hurried out.
Yes， he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the pictureback to her room.
How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind hisspectacles！ What a broad brow he had！ To be able to judgeperspective at a glance —and to live on stale bread！ Butgenius often has to struggle before it is recognized.
What a thing it would be for art and perspective ifgenius were backed by two thousand dollars in bank， abakery， and a sympathetic heart to —But these were daydreams，Miss Martha.
Often now when he came he would chat for a whileacross the showcase. He seemed to crave Miss Martha’scheerful 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 hismeagre purchase， but her courage failed at the act. She didnot dare affront him. She knew the pride of artists.
