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 ends of drawing herself. She often worked until after midnight. She was a 'convulsive worker' who had broken down a number of times and yet never seemed able to do less than all. Mr. Fox stopped abruptly to watch the ducks pushing about in the dirty water of the Frog Pond like tiny submersible tugboats. 'I wish she'd learn from them,' he said; 'they take life so agreeably. But if she were one of those ducks—say that white one'—he indicated a portly individual with a yellow bill—'instead of swimming about and being thankful for scum, she would make herself sick trying to eat it all up and get the place clean.'

Although Mr. Fox assured her that he himself always kept an eye on 'Hearth and Home,' he was especially concerned with his own 'Fox's Journal,' a weekly. This was stronger food than was fed out to 'elegant womanhood' and reflected to some extent the diverse, diverting, and sophisticated personality of Mr. Fox. He had run it for years in New York before old Mr. Redcliffe one day had come raging into his office and persuaded him into partnership. Then he removed his headquarters from the vulgar capital of fashion to that of culture and gained the benefit of a closer union with the celebrated Concord, Cambridge, and Boston literary men who were in those days sprouting up like mushrooms, but branching out like oaks. He boasted of the fact that he had never written one word for 'Hearth and Home,' except when he had first come, and was very much afraid of Miss Bigley, he had been left late in the