Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on the corner (the one where you go up three steps, and the bell tinkles when you open the door).

Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two thousand dollars, and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart. Many people have married whose chances to do so were much inferior to Miss Martha's.

Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom she began to take an interest. He was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a brown beard trimmed to a careful point.

He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were worn and darned in places, and wrinkled and baggy in others. But he looked neat, and had very good manners.

He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Never did he call for anything but stale bread.

Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She was sure then that he was an artist and very poor. No doubt he lived in a garret, where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of the good things to eat in Miss Martha's bakery.

Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jam and tea she would sigh, and wish that the gentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughty attic. Miss Martha's heart, as you have been told, was a sympathetic one.

In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set it against the shelves behind the bread counter.

It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on the picture) stood in the foreground—or rather forewater. For the rest there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in 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 she was wrapping up the bread.

“Yes?” says Miss Martha, reveling in her own cunning. “I do so admire art and”(no, it would not do to say “artists”thus early) “and paintings,” she substituted. “You think it is 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 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.

His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.

“Dummkopf!” he shouted with extreme loudness; and then “Tausendonfer!” or something like it in German.

The young man tried to draw him away.

“I vill not go,” he said angrily, “else I shall told her.”

He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.

“You haf shpoilt me,” he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his spectacles. “I vill tell you. You vas von meddingsome old cat!”

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar.

“Come on,” he said, “you've said enough.”He dragged the angry one out at the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.

“Guess you ought to be told, ma'am,” he said, “what the row is about. That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman. I work in the same office with him.

“He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first. When it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber.

“Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day—well, you know, ma'am, that butter isn't—well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches.”

Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silk waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she poured the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.

瑪莎·米查姆小姐在拐角處開了一家小面包店（就是你走上三級臺階，打開門時，門鈴丁當作響的那種小店）。

瑪莎小姐四十歲，銀行存折顯示她有兩千美元存款，她還有兩顆假牙和一顆同情心。許多運氣完全不如瑪莎小姐的人都已經結婚了。

一個顧客每周到店里來兩、三次，瑪莎小姐開始對他產生了興趣。他人到中年，戴著眼鏡，棕色胡子修剪得齊齊整整。

他說英語時帶有濃重的德國口音，衣服有的地方磨損，打著補丁，有的地方皺皺巴巴，松松垮垮。但是，他看上去整潔，很有禮貌。

他總是買兩塊陳面包。新鮮面包五分錢一條。陳面包五分錢兩條。除了陳面包，他從來不買其他東西。

有一次，瑪莎小姐看到他手指上有一塊紅褐相間的污斑，于是確信他是一位藝術家，而且很窮。毫無疑問，他住在閣樓，在那里作畫，一邊吃陳面包，一邊想著瑪莎小姐面包店里各種好吃的東西。

每當瑪莎小姐坐下吃排骨、松軟的面包卷、果醬、喝茶時，常常會嘆息，希望那個溫文爾雅的藝術家能分享她的可口飯菜，而不是在四面透風的閣樓里啃吃干面包皮。我曾經說過，瑪莎小姐有一顆同情心。

有一天，為了檢驗她對這個人職業的推測，她從房間里搬出了她特價買來的一幅畫，靠在面包柜臺后面的架子上。

那是一幅威尼斯風景畫。一座富麗堂皇的大理石宮殿（畫上是這樣標明的）矗立在畫面的前景——或者更準確地說，前面的水景。此外，有幾艘平底船（那位女士的一只手曳行在水里），有云彩，有天空，還有許多明暗變化的畫筆。藝術家不可能不注意到這一點。

兩天后，那位顧客來到了店里。

“清（請）拿兩塊陳面包。”

“夫人，你這里又（有）一幅好化（畫），”她在包裹面包時，他說。

“是嗎？”瑪莎小姐說，對自己的計謀洋洋得意。“我的確非常欽佩藝術和——”（不，這么說“藝術家”尚早）“和繪畫。”她換了一種說法，“你認為這是一幅好畫嗎？”

“貢（宮）殿，”顧客說，“畫得不好。偷（透）視法不真實。在（再）見，夫人。”

他拿起面包，躬了躬身，匆匆出了店門。

是的，他一定是一位藝術家。瑪莎小姐把畫搬回了房間。

他眼鏡后面的目光是多么溫和親切！他的前額是多么寬闊！一眼就能看出透視畫法——竟靠陳面包生活！但在得到公眾認可之前，天才常常不得不奮斗。

要是天才有兩千美元銀行存款、一家面包店和一顆同情心作后盾，這對藝術和透視畫法將會是多好的事兒啊！——但這不過是白日夢，瑪莎小姐。

現在每當他來時，總會隔著陳列柜聊一會兒，好像渴望瑪莎小姐的愉快談話。

他繼續買陳面包，從不買蛋糕，也不買餡餅，更不買她店里可口的薩利倫甜餅。

她覺得他看上去漸漸消瘦、灰心。她一心渴望在他買的寒酸食物里加一些好吃東西，但她沒有勇氣去做。她不敢冒犯他。她了解藝術家的自尊。

瑪莎小姐站柜臺時開始喜歡穿那件藍點絲綢胸衣。她在里屋熬起了神秘的榅桲籽和硼砂的合劑。許許多多人用這種合劑美容。

有一天，那位顧客又像往常那樣走進來，把五分鎳幣放在柜臺上，要求買陳面包。瑪莎小姐伸手去拿面包時，喇叭嘟嘟聲和丁當聲大作，一輛消防車隆隆駛過。

顧客趕忙跑到門口去看，誰都會這樣做。瑪莎小姐突然靈機一動，抓住了這個機會。

柜臺后面最底層的擱板上放著一磅新鮮黃油，送奶人送來才十分鐘。

瑪莎小姐用切面包刀把各個陳面包都深深地劃了一刀，塞進了大量黃油，然后又把面包壓緊。

顧客又轉過身時，她正在用紙裹著面包。

他們十分愉快地聊了一小會兒。顧客走后，瑪莎小姐暗自微笑，但心里不免有點兒慌亂。

她是不是過于莽撞呢？他會見怪嗎？不過，肯定不會。食物絕不代表語言。黃油也絕不象征有失少女身份的魯莽行為。

那天，她在這件事上細想了好一陣子，想象他發現她的小小伎倆時的情景。

他會放下畫筆和調色板。那里會支著他的畫架，畫架上是他正在作的畫，其中所用的透視法無可厚非。

他會準備干面包和水，作為午飯。他將切開一塊面包——啊！

瑪莎小姐臉色羞紅了。他吃面包時會想到那只放黃油的手嗎？他會——

前門鈴惡狠狠地響了起來。有人大吵大鬧著走進來。

瑪莎小姐匆匆趕到前臺。那里有兩個男人。一個是叼著煙斗的年輕人——她以前從未見過，另一個是她的藝術家。

他臉色通紅，帽子戴在后腦勺上，頭發弄得亂七八糟。他緊握兩只拳頭，氣勢洶洶地朝瑪莎小姐搖晃著。沖著瑪莎小姐搖晃。

“笨蛋！”他扯開嗓子喊道，隨后又喊了一聲“見鬼！”之類的德國話。

那個年輕人竭力想把他拽走。

“我不回（會）走的，”他憤怒地說，“我非要高（告）訴她不可。”

他咚咚咚敲著瑪莎小姐的柜臺。

“你會（毀）了我。”他喊道，藍眼睛在鏡片后面冒著火。“我腰（要）告訴你。你是以（一）只埃（愛）管閑事的老太婆！”

瑪莎小姐無力地靠在貨架上，一只手放在藍點絲綢胸衣上。年輕人抓住同伴的衣領。

“走吧，”他說，“你已經說夠了。”他把那個怒氣沖沖的人拽到門外的人行道上，然后又折了回來。

“夫人，我想應該把這次吵嚷的原因告訴你，”他說，“那位是布魯姆伯格。他是一名建筑繪圖員。我和他在同一個辦公室工作。

“他一直在繪制一張新市政廳平面圖，辛辛苦苦地繪了三個月，準備參加有獎競賽。他昨天剛上完墨。你知道，繪圖員總是先用鉛筆打底稿。打完底稿后，他用幾把陳面包屑擦掉鉛筆線。陳面包屑要比彈性橡皮效果好。

“布魯姆伯格一直買這里的面包。啊，今天——啊，夫人，你知道，那黃油不——啊，布魯姆伯格的平面圖現在沒有一點用了，只能割成鐵路復合板了。”

瑪莎小姐走進里屋，脫下藍點絲綢胸衣，換上原來那件棕色嗶嘰衣服，隨后把榅桲籽和硼砂的合劑潑到了窗外的垃圾箱里。