I.

The eye of the attentive observer who wanders through Fifth Avenue, and the streets which run into it from right and left, is especially attracted by the houses, built here in the Colonial, there in the Renaissance style. Some of these imposing edifices (often the only reminder of long-vanished fortunes), with their rich facades, afford a striking criterion of the tastes of their builders and of their former inhabitants.

In one of these houses, rearing their proud height to the sky, a small lap-dog, bedecked with silken ribbons, sat in a parlor window. He stretched his snowy paws with great satisfaction on the cushioned window-seat, warming himself in the April sun. The luxurious room behind him was quite empty, and the enforced solitude was not at all to the taste of the spoiled pet. It was probably for this reason that he did not find it worth his while to bark in a superior manner at the pedestrians who appeared on the street, but a look of silent contempt told very plainly that he had made up his mind to consider as extremely unpleasing the movements of a limping street-cleaner who was at the moment just in front of the house.

In fact, the lame man did not look as if he could pretend being favored with a condescending glance by a lap-dog living amidst such sumptuous surroundings.

He looked, too, as if he had had no great practice at his wretched calling—as if he were a novice at it. Although his sickly, sunken features were surrounded by an unkempt grey beard, and his clothing hung loosely about his wasted form, he somehow gave the impression of being an intelligent man of some education, upon whom undeserved misfortune pressed heavily.

The well-fed pet in the parlor window, however, had no conception of undeserved misery, and was about casting to the winds the carefully drilled manners of an educated dog when, fortunately, a well-appointed carriage drew up just as the lame man was preparing to go on his way.

A delicate-looking lady with a kindly face alighted from the carriage, and nodded smilingly to the little dog. The lame street-cleaner had no sooner glanced at the benevolent face of the richly-dressed woman than his emaciated form began to tremble. His face, so pale before, became red, as with humiliation, and in a state of marked agitation he was on the point of dropping his broom and stealing quietly away.

The lady, Mrs. Denison, who had just come from a charitable gathering, and was still under the influence of her charitable mood, felt hurriedly in her purse for a silver-piece, which she instructed her servant to give the lame man as she ascended the broad steps and disappeared into the house.

"I am no beggar!" stammered the street-cleaner in broken English, waving off the proffered alms with a trembling hand.

Within the mansion Mr. Denison, in a faultless evening costume, turned the diamond sleeve-links in the cuffs he was adjusting as he awaited his wife.

Mrs. Denison laid aside her hat and cloak and hastened upstairs to greet him, beginning at once to give him a rather feverish account of the doings of the association of which she was president.

Presently another turn was given to the conversation by the entrance of a tall young man with light blue eyes and a rather inexpressive face.

"I am done with racing for the present!" he cried eagerly, holding out his hand.

"Thank heaven!" answered Mrs. Denison, fervently.

"Eh, for once, George," said Mr. Denison thoughtfully.

"And do you know why? My favorite won first place—only think how lucky!" The young man's excitement was perceptible in his panting breath.

"And how delighted Lucy will be! Here she comes now," said Mrs. Denison, turning to kiss the white forehead of her daughter as she entered the room.

Lucy, a pale, thoughtful girl, with large, meditative eyes shaded by gold-rimmed glasses, held out her finely-shaped hand to George Elmore with a forced smile. There was, indeed, very little of the delight of which her mother had spoken to be seen in her face, although the young man scarcely seemed to notice its absence. Various sports occupied him to such an extent that he never had time to make a study of the girl to whom he was engaged. In addition to his penchant for amusements of the most superficial kind, the gift of observation was entirely lacking in his inflated brain. It was generally supposed that he was very much in love with her, but it was a question whether his affection for his riding-horse was not of a similar nature.

Any one who did observe the pale face of the young girl more closely, however, could not have failed to notice the light quivering of her finely-chiselled nostrils, the nervous motion of her red lips.

In spite of the assumed appearance of calm, which proved the power of her will, it was possible to perceive the existence within her of some deep emotion.

She was standing by the window, the involuntary witness of the alms giving when it had occurred. The lame man in the street was no stranger to her; she knew his domestic circumstances only too well, and during his stay in the hospital had helped to support his family without confiding the circumstance to her parents. Whether she had omitted to mention it for fear of making herself ridiculous, or from some deeper motive, perhaps she, herself, could not at the present moment have determined.

Lucy breathed a sigh of relief when the dinner was announced, and her fiance went away to carry his pleasant news to other friends and acquaintances.

Meanwhile the poor cripple hobbled off to his miserable dwelling. With failing breath he dragged himself over the great distance which lay between him and the lower part of the city, without once raising his eyes from the pavement, suffering and devastating mental torture showing in the feverish glow of his sunken eyes.

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II.

Martin, the lame man, had been brought from Lyons by Mr. Denison, the silk manufacturer, apparently under the most favorable conditions. In the silk factory in New Jersey he had proven himself a most skillful dyer. The Denison wares came to be noted for their likeness to the Lyonese goods, and in a short time, through their similarity to the imported ones, surpassed all that had hitherto been made on this side of the ocean. For this reason the goddess, Fortune, added continually to the Denison stock of worldly treasures.

But the continued pressure of the long workdays began to call forth loud remonstrances from the workmen in the Denison factory. Martin, generally looked upon as being responsible for the improvement in the product, was, consequently, hated as being the indirect cause of that pressure.

"I'll be damned if I work a day longer for such beggarly wages!" cried a red-headed Irishman one day, bringing his fist down on the dye-tub with an angry look.

"I can't blame him; he's in the right of it!" answered a second workman.

"A twelve-hour day, and such hard work at that!" cried a third one, leaving his work-bench.

"Right you are!" exclaimed all the others, rolling up their sleeves aggressively.

"If the boss doesn't give us an eight-hour day and higher wages, we quit tomorrow, eh, boys?" cried the angry Irishman, his nose turning from red to purple in his excitement.

Martin had been endeavoring, with ever-increasing earnestness, to calm the excited minds of the workmen, but all that he had been able to say to this end had been laughed to scorn. The next morning he was the only one who appeared at the factory.

At ten o'clock came a deputation of the employees to the office of the manufacturer. Mr. Denison was perfectly willing to agree to a raise in wages, but he would hear nothing of an eight-hour workday, even at the risk of having to stop work for an indefinite period. Orders were coming in day by day. The busy season had just opened and the shutting down of the works would have meant a considerable loss to the manufacturer.

Accordingly, Martin received orders to engage new workmen at once and set them going at their different tasks. The strikers no sooner became aware of this than they began to cast angry glances at Martin.

"Our places to be taken by others?" cried the red-headed Irishman to Martin, in a voice choked with rage, as the latter, weary and worn, prepared to take his way homeward.

"The dog of a foreigner is to blame for it all!" said another with threatening gestures.

This was the beginning. The whole of the brutal crew fell upon Martin, and soon left him lying senseless on the ground. In this state he was carried home. His wife, an intelligent woman, the daughter of a doctor in Basle, and his four children, wept loudly, as the beloved father was carried unconscious into the house. The help of a physician was soon at hand and after a thorough examination a fracture was discovered in the upper part of the right thigh.

The poor wife tended her unfortunate husband with the entire self-sacrifice of a true woman, keeping up the house as long as possible with what little money she could painfully scrape together.

The eldest son, a youth of twenty-four, who, having regard to his manifest talent, had educated himself to be a painter, was unfortunately unable to find employment just at this time, in spite of his diligent and anxious search for it. To the serious financial situation was added the bitter recognition of the fact that the condition of the beloved sufferer was daily growing worse.

Despair seized the unhappy family. The head of the firm was the only person from whom they might expect help. Accordingly Mrs. Martin decided to go to him as soon as possible, since the factory was to be closed for an indefinite time.

Shyly and hesitatingly she entered the office. The thought of having to confess her dire poverty brought a flood of red to her thin face. No one was in the office but a clerk. To the question as to whether she could see Mr. Denison he answered with a contemptuous laugh that Mr. Denison had more important business on hand that day, and was visible to no one. Her urgent entreaty to be allowed to see him if only for a moment was in vain. The clerk rudely showed her the door.

During this conversation, Lucy, the recently betrothed daughter of the manufacturer, sat listening in an adjoining room. The continued disturbances at the factory had caused her so much anxiety that she had insisted upon accompanying her father to the works, which she had scarcely visited before since her return from Germany. She had studied for two years at a school in Leipzig, and through the intellectual treasures of German literature and art she had become conversant with nobler pleasures than those which proved so attractive to Mr. Elmore, her fiance. Her aspirations for high and beautiful ideals found rich satisfaction in the finer and more artistic pursuits.

She was sitting thoughtfully by the window, looking out at the grey clouds that chased each other across the sky like a troop of headless ghosts. Her profile was, perhaps, lacking in the classic lines which esthetic laws prescribe for beauty; but a rich spiritual life gave an indescribable charm to her pale countenance.

Her large, meditative eyes seemed shadowed today by a deep melancholy. However she tried to fix her thoughts on George Elmore, the companion of her childhood, to whom, at her parents' wish she had engaged herself, today she found it impossible. Always there arose from the depths of her memory the face of a shy, gentle youth with light, curling hair and deep searching eyes, and the vision made her tremble.

Chance had made them acquainted at the Art School. She had been trying, unsuccessfully, to reproduce the luminous expression of a saint. Her neighbor, watching her conflict with her difficult task, showed, in his shy fashion, his willingness to be of use to her. With a few strokes of his brush he succeeded in catching the desired expression, and at the same time gave her in a hesitating voice an explanation of the picture, and its purpose. He spoke of the light effects which he considered an erroneous conception on the part of the painter, while the next picture, belonging in part to the school of Rembrandt, reached a happier effect from the depths of the shadows in one place and the heightening of the light in another.

From that time on they worked for hours side by side, he explaining the lights and shadows of each picture with such fullness of comprehension, such a thorough knowledge of history, literature, and art, as to make a deep impression on her mind. Her two years' sojourn in Germany had not been able to efface these art-school recollections. She did not know his name, to say nothing of his social position and still—she could not forget—even now she thought of him—even now his picture thrust itself between her and her fiance.

Involuntarily she sprang to her feet to escape those torturing thoughts. Her attention was caught by the sound of low sobbing. She was able to observe through a crack in the partition the distress of poor Mrs. Martin, as the clerk refused her admittance into the manufacturer's private office.

Broken with discouragement and suffering, Mrs. Martin had scarcely closed the door behind her when Lucy entered the office.

"Who is that sobbing woman?" she asked hastily of the clerk.

"That woman? She is the wife of the former foreman, whom—the strikers—handled somewhat roughly," he answered, hesitatingly, dropping his malicious eyes.

"She wished to speak to papa, didn't she? Why didn't you let her in?" she demanded, frowning.

"Because I had strict orders not to let anyone in today," he replied shortly, suppressing his rebellious feelings.

"Then I must hurry after the poor woman and ask her if there is anything I can do for her," murmured Lucy with quick decision, taking up her hat and cape from an adjoining room.

"I suppose the distinguished Mr. Martin's last dollar's gone," sneered the clerk after her in an Irish accent.

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III.

Lucy hastened after Mrs. Martin, who was still visible in the distance. As the deeply tried woman closed the door of her modest dwelling, a light step made her turn and open it again. She gazed with surprise into the face of the elegantly-gowned girl with the gold-rimmed glasses.

"Does Mr. Martin live here?" the girl inquired in a doubtful voice.

"Yes. Will you be so good as to walk in?" answered the astonished woman. And then with a glance into the room—"Eugene, a lady!" she called to her son.

An inner door opened and Eugene Martin appeared. They stood speechless, gazing in confusion at each other, while white and red chased each other over both of their faces. It was perfectly obvious that they were not strangers to each other; indeed, they had often painted side by side at the Art School. It was the same shy, gentle youth with the dark speaking eyes who had occupied more of her thoughts than would have been considered advisable for an engaged girl. Nevertheless she struggled to conceal her excitement, and to appear calmly in the character of the purpose which had brought her. But how could she offer alms to this family? No, it would no longer be possible; her sensibilities revolted at this thought, and for the moment she wished even to conceal her name from them.

"I wished to have a picture of my—" she was about to say, "of my fiance," without really thinking of him in the least, but a flame of red overspread her face and the word died upon her lips. "—of myself," she substituted. "And I wish it done in oils," she went on in a firmer tone.

Eugene conducted the visitor to the scrupulously clean, though modest, little parlor. In order to reach it they were obliged to pass through the room where his father lay ill, the wild fancies of fever playing antics in his brain. Lucy threw a glance of deep sympathy at the sufferer, visibly moved at the sight of his hollow, ashen face.

The great interest she displayed and the anxious inquiries she made about his father's illness, filled Eugene's heart with gratitude. He could have knelt before this being from another sphere, to whom he had scarcely dared to raise his eyes, and thank her in that humble way of his for the warm sympathy she bestowed on his sick father.

"I have seen some of your paintings, and—I am quite sure that my portrait will be a success—" began Lucy, stammering again, as she looked at the sketches displayed about the room.

"I should, of course, do my best—to—keep your good opinion of my capability," answered Eugene, with downcast eyes and a hesitating tongue.

Lucy had taken up a portfolio and was turning over its contents, simply to avoid having to meet his glances. She was afraid he might read what was passing in her mind.

"But whether I should be able to satisfy a lady who has so much artistic knowledge—I hardly know," he admitted modestly, "for of late I have not been able to do much except this landscape."

He indicated a picture which hung at the other end of the room, wondering at the flush which had overspread Lucy's face as she bent over the portfolio, her blood tingling to her finger's ends.

She put down the treacherous portfolio hastily. The exposition of the secret hidden within its covers made her tremble. One of her own drawings, which she had probably thrown away, suddenly met her eyes. It had been enriched by a border of blue forget-me-nots, and as she drew it forth from one of the side pockets she saw, underneath it, written in Eugene's hand, the single word: "Unforgetable."

Her heart beat loudly; still she retained self-command enough to ask in an indifferent tone, when he would be ready to begin the sketch for the portrait, at the same time examining the picture to which he had drawn her attention.

"I should like to know, also, what your price is to be for the execution of the picture," she said, raising her eyes timidly.

He would have been glad to avoid any mentioning of the question of money, but when she insisted, in a hesitating voice, he named a small amount.

"I believe it is customary to pay half in advance," Lucy went on with an embarrassed smile, handing a fifty-dollar note to the confused Eugene, in spite of his shy protest that he was not in the least hurry about it.

After the day and hour had been fixed for the first sketch of the portrait, Lucy returned to the factory deeply gratified that she had found a way to help the poor woman in her distress. Her father, immersed in business, had scarcely noticed her absence. She would have liked to tell him something of the poverty and illness of his old foreman, but an indefinable feeling of shyness kept her silent. The factory was closed on the same day.

Poor Martin's condition grew visibly worse. On the doctor's recommendation, he was transferred to the neighboring hospital, and the afflicted family reconciled themselves to the inevitable. Although the poor wife had tended him day and night with never-varying devotion, she could not but admit that she was not in a position to give him all that was required by the physician's directions.

Eugene, now the only support of the family, was obliged, in default of anything better, to take to retouching pictures for photographers. This ill-paid mechanical labor was beginning to have an injurious effect upon his imagination. The day-dreams which had filled his whole soul, anticipating his going to the Eternal City, to receive there the artist's consecration by studying the great masterpieces, he now saw vanishing into comfortless vacuity, replaced by nothing better than the dreamy monotony of earning his daily bread by hard and uninteresting work.

Lucy's meteoric appearance, however, had filled the darkened spirit of the young man with a cheering light. With fiery eagerness he began sketching the dear face which he had never been able to forget. The laboring mechanic disappeared, and the artist, once more awakened, felt his genius glow again with the desire to create. This girl, the very sight of whom made him tremble with joy, must not be allowed to lose her faith in his talent—his artistic capacity. In her eyes he wished to be that, which his dreams had promised he should be—a real artist, even if he were obliged to strain his powers to the very limit of the unattainable.

At the appointed hours Lucy came, bringing, like Schiller's 'Maiden from a foreign shore,' valuable gifts for his mother, with fruits and toys for the children. To Eugene, however, she brought the most fatal gift—a ray of that unsurpassable bitter-sweet pain which men call love, and which often ends only with life. After she had left the house all trace of her vanished; none of them knew whence she came or whither she went.

With each sitting Eugene grew into a condition of more blissful intoxication, although Lucy, in her refined unapproachableness, gave him not the slightest excuse for such a feeling. Only once he felt her thoughtful eyes resting upon him with an expression which sent the blood coursing madly through his veins.

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IV.

One day when the picture was almost completed he received the following lines from her:

"I am going with my mother to Palm Beach, where we expect to spend a month or two. If my portrait is done before I come back, kindly send it to No. — Fifth Avenue. Remember me to your dear ones.

LUCY."

A check was enclosed for the balance of the stipulated price.

Eugene felt an icy breath sweep over the glowing love which filled his heart, like the freezing north wind which brings death and destruction in its train, blowing over land and sea and carrying all before it. His artistic powers to strive for the heights of ideals seemed broken; he had no energy left. All was dark and gloomy within him.

"She is rich and I—oh, so poor!" was the thought incessantly in his mind.

In his present position as sole support of his family he could not long give himself up to such unfruitful emotions; he must work in order to provide bread for his mother and the children. And so he tried by hard, incessant labor, by constant occupation, to forget the sweet dream of his brief, imaginary happiness. A bitter feeling of depression rose in him at the thought that the richly-dressed lady must consider him a fool, puffed up with artistic pride; that she thought of him, if at all, with a pitying smile at his presumption.

Thanks to the skillful medical care which Martin shared at the hospital, he was soon on the road to recovery.

"You will have to get used to the idea of having a lame husband the rest of your life," he would say smilingly to his wife, who visited him daily.

"If only your love isn't lame, we shall be all right again," she answered him with simple affection. He wiped away an unobserved tear, and pressed her hand with emotion.

Eugene grew pale and nervous. Seeking forgetfulness in his work he labored day and night with unwearying diligence, allowing himself no time for rest. In the brief pauses he was obliged to make it obvious, however, that he had not entirely succeeded. Something of pain, of untold suffering, would then steal over his weary face. The nervous strain, continued for weeks, together with the hardly repressed mental conflict, began, little by little, to undermine his constitution, never of the strongest.

It was just a week after his father had left the hospital (with one leg shorter than the other but otherwise in good health) that Eugene fell fainting at his work. In a day or two a severe nervous fever developed. His parents, horribly frightened, did all in their power to aid his recovery.

Martin, though still weak, made haste to hobble to the factory, which, on the termination of the strike had opened as usual, to try for his former position.

"Is Mr. Denison here?" he asked of the book-keeper, who was a stranger to him.

"Mr. Denison has gone to Florida—the date of his return is uncertain," answered the book-keeper, returning to his interrupted occupation without paying any more attention to the white-faced cripple who stood leaning against the desk.

"My name is Martin, and I used to be in charge of the dyeing department here," persisted the anxious applicant, resolved not to be dismissed so easily.

"Every place is filled now, and well filled," said the book-keeper with a trace of irritation, not looking up from his big ledger; "and anyhow, you may be quite sure there will be no change in the staff as long as the boss is away."

Crushed and despairing, Martin tottered out of the office. But full of confidence in his ability as a dyer, he decided to go to another factory and offer his services.

His sad, depressed appearance, however, was no good introduction in a place where only strong hands were looked for, so nothing but disappointment awaited him at the other places.

"The strike has ruined business," said one of the manufacturers, while another laid the blame on over-production. "Come in some other day," said a third.

During all these unsuccessful attempts to provide the means of subsistence one week after another slipped away. Now the lack of the barest necessities stared them in the face—bitter need, upon whose hideous features they had not before been forced to look.

And Eugene, in the delirium of his fever, was always talking of the inaccessible maiden from another sphere. His clear-sighted mother began to grasp the meaning of all this with anxious foreboding.

"What's to be done? What's to be done?" the poor cripple asked himself, wringing his hands, when he was notified that unless he paid his back rent within twenty-four hours, he and his family would be put into the street.

With despair in his heart he hastened out, and sold everything of any value that was yet left to him in order to avoid this disgrace.

"And then we'll get out of this unlucky street!" cried the mother, sobbing and wiping the hot tears from her eyes.

After a short family council it was decided to move over to New York.

"No one knows me there; I can get any kind of employment in New York—and work is easier to find there than it is here," said Martin to comfort his sobbing wife.

A week later found the sorely-tried family in one of the great barracks of tenements in the lower part of the city. As a whole, the neighborhood could not be surpassed for lack of comfort, and little more appeared in the three bare rooms tenanted by the Martin family.

Eugene's condition had improved, although he was still confined to his bed; but the poor father's mind was even more tormented by the fearful spectre of poverty, and yet—in busy, populous New York, surely, there was work to be found!

He was going upstairs one day when he was stopped by a woman who was a stranger to him. She opened an adjoining door, and asked him to step into the room. Her husband was lying there sick in bed and groaning with pain.

"Excuse me," began the woman, "my husband is a street-cleaner—he sweeps Fifth Avenue," she added, with a proud intonation. "For twenty-five years—mind that—he had done his duty; and now the commissioners send for him today and here he is, sick in bed and can't sweep his Fifth Avenue!" She went on with great loquacity, without paying any heed to the embarrassed face of her new neighbor.

"If you will take his place I will give you his whole day's wages!" she shouted, handing him the money together with the broom.

Martin was unable to resist the fascination of coins so badly needed. The other street-cleaners were waiting down stairs. After the robust woman had communicated the whole affair to them through the window they took Martin into their ranks without any waste of words and marched on before he had time to realize where he was going. Pressing his hat over his eyes he hobbled along with them as well as he could, while actual tears rolled down into his grey beard.

But the thought of coming home at night with the money he had earned soothed him to some extent. His family need never know, and he was not acquainted with another soul in the great city.

How sorely he was hurt by the knowledge that his former employer's wife had seen him at this undignified occupation is already known to the reader.

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V.

On the evening in question Lucy was unusually quiet and absorbed. She had scarcely seemed to understand the loving words whispered in her ear by her lover who sat beside her; she was obliged to force herself, even, to return monosyllabic answers to his questions. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She had only been back from Palm Beach a little while, and had heard nothing from the family in which she was so much interested. But her busy imagination depicted the well-known room which contained the portfolio which had played such a part in her life; and Eugene's fair, curly head, and glowing, longing glances. Then once more, she saw his father with the broom—the almsgiving scene. Her thoughts were incessantly occupied with the son of a street-cleaner!

A burning flush of shame overspread her pale face, which George Elmore accepted as the answer to his tenderly whispered entreaties that she should become his wife at once, and kissed her hand repeatedly.

The son of a street-cleaner to thrust himself between her and George! Being what she was—a proud woman and an heiress, she was startled.

"How could I so far forget myself!" she reflected. "Heavens! if George were to suspect!"

She tried her best to drive away the embarrassing—nay, the dishonoring thought. The idea struck her as ludicrous—horribly ludicrous, and that disturbed her even more.

Obviously there was but one way out of this labyrinth of tormenting thoughts—to marry as soon as possible. She had a mind to say the decisive word this very evening and appoint, finally the day for the wedding. As George's wife she would find rest and healing for her stubborn heart in the fulfilment of her duty, and be able to realize how foolish it was to allow it unlimited play outside the bounds of reason. In the meantime the poor family must be helped. In spite of the foundations of reason which she had just laid, she felt an interest in them.

"Nonsense! It is nothing but sympathy for those unfortunates," she tried to persuade herself. Tomorrow she would have a talk with her father with a view to having Martin restored to his old place in the factory. She would pretend to have gained her knowledge of their circumstances from a friend who had employed their son for a short time.

She could not, however, entirely suppress the pricks of conscience which told her that her silence to her father had delayed this restoration, and had thus been responsible for the complete destitution of these worthy people.

Three days later Martin received orders through a workman in the factory who knew his address to report there with a view to resuming his former position. Accordingly great joy prevailed in the Martin family. Eugene was the only one now, weak and ill as he still was, to remain gloomy and self-absorbed.

A gleam of happier feeling overspread his pale face when he brought out Lucy's picture, now almost completed, and heightened the attractiveness of the cheeks, or made the thoughtful eyes yet more speaking. And then he thought how, when it was all done, he would seek her out and himself deliver it to her, and once more he resolved to allow the full fascination of her dear presence to work its will upon him.

"And after that, I must avoid her—flee from her! We must be as two stars which cannot tear themselves from their own destined spheres, but are forced to wander each in its own appointed orbit," he murmured to himself with bitter pain, gazing at the picture with unspeakable dejection.

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VI.

The delicious month of May had now come round once more. Nature, awakening to life, put on its wondrous robe of many colors, and the sun in proud consciousness of its power to tempt with the alluring warmth, the flowers concealed in the mystic bosom of Mother Earth, shone with ever increasing fervency. In Central Park Nature's feathered choir poured forth its gay song into the lovely spring air, while the perfumed lilacs lavished their scent upon all who came, caring not whether the dweller in tenements breathed it in greedily, or whether the superior residents of Fifth Avenue ignored it contemptuously.

In the house of the rich manufacturer the perfume of the lilacs was not missed; the most recherche hot-house plants supplanting them in fragrance were artistically grouped on both sides of the great staircase down to the front door, filling all the room with a perfume that bewildered the senses. Servants in livery hastened busily, but noiselessly, about, putting the last touches to the decorations of the parlor for the wedding ceremony to be performed on this day. In the adjoining room a beautiful altar was visible, decked with superb flowers from which festoons of myrtle ran up to a hanging bell of red and white roses.

Carriage after carriage rolled to the door, from which descended fair guests, arrayed in splendid Worth and Felix gowns, while faultlessly dressed gentlemen helped them to alight.

In her room upstairs stood Lucy, in a white dress and gold-embroidered veil, with orange blossoms upon her bosom. Although apparently calm, she was deathly pale, and her heart, whose feelings had been suppressed with so much difficulty, betrayed itself by violent beating. A nameless uneasiness was upon her, almost suffocating her at times. Eugene's fair head and disquieting eyes were before her mind vividly—now—when in an hour's time she would be the bride of another. More than once she was obliged to have recourse to the smelling-bottle which stood upon the dressing-table, in order not to give way—to be strong enough to bear the torture of the ceremony with dignified calmness.

"The shock to my parents—the society in which I move—no, no, there is no retreat for me!" she murmured with decision in answer to her heart's loud insistence. She was marrying George in fulfillment of her parents' wishes and also to escape from her tormenting self. That in making this decision she had buried the ideals of her youth—her life's happiness, no one should ever guess. It was time now to steer boldly forth into the deep sea of matrimony, deprived forever of her life's compass.

Mrs. Denison, in a costly dress, had repeatedly opened the window and gazed with anxious impatience at all the carriages that came from the lower part of the city, but she saw no sign of their own carriage so impatiently awaited. Mr. Denison had gone down town in the morning, promising to be back before noon, and now it was four o'clock.

Disquieting rumors had already begun to circulate to the effect that the great banking house with which their whole fortune was deposited was on an unstable footing, owing to a rapid fall in the stock market.

Mr. Denison had said nothing of this to his wife, although a horrible agitation had taken possession of him, when, upon leaving the house he had told the coachman to drive at full speed to the banking house.

The guests were all assembled. The clergyman was waiting, but still there was no sign of Mr. Denison. An uneasy whisper, an ever-increasing impatience, could be noticed. Mrs. Denison's thin face took on a feverish red. Elmore's father was just about to telephone down town, when, at last the carriage rolled up to the door. The coachman, excited with overdriving, leaped from his seat and opened the carriage door; but he had no sooner cast a glance into the carriage than he uttered a loud cry, and with unsteady footsteps, hastened to Mrs. Denison.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Denison, please don't be alarmed—" he panted in a trembling voice, "The big banking house down town failed this morning—and—it seems—Mr. Denison was so fearfully upset—so fearfully—when he came out of the bank his face was all red—and I heard him say in a low voice that he would have to fail too! Yes—and now—please don't be frightened—he's lying dead in the carriage!"

With a loud shriek, wringing her hands and moaning, Mrs. Denison hastened to the carriage. The gentlemen guests carried Mr. Denison's body, still warm, into the house. "Heart failure," said one to another. The women gathered around Mrs. Denison, who was loudly weeping, and tried to console her. Then one by one they stole away, since it was quite obvious that there would be no more thought of the marriage that day.

Lucy, worn out by weeks of mental agitation, was overcome by the sudden shock of this sad news, and fell back without a word upon the sofa, gliding gently from it to the floor. A beneficent unconsciousness clouded her perceptions. No one had time to care for her; all the servants had been sent right and left to bring medical aid for Mr. Denison. All means of restoration were tried, but failed to bring him back to life. "Apoplexy," said the physicians, and silently left the house.

Meanwhile Lucy lay on the soft carpet without a word or motion. In her dazzling white dress, with the gold-embroidered veil, with the marble paleness on her face, she looked like a sculptured goddess who had fallen from her pedestal.

The last wedding guests, those who had helped to carry Mr. Denison up to his room, had just driven away, sighing and shaking their heads as they discussed the sad event. The stillness of death settled over the house. Suddenly a sound was heard as of soft footsteps drawing near. Then the door of Lucy's boudoir, which had been left ajar, was gently opened. A curly-headed young man with a disturbed countenance appeared upon the threshold, looking right and left with admiring wonder. The front door was still standing open—no one had found time to close it.

Eugene, bringing Lucy's portrait, had thus been able to penetrate unperceived, to the upper story. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he gazed at the fair form in bridal attire lying upon the floor.

Startled and trembling in all his limbs, he was about to close the door he had just opened, when he caught sight of Lucy's face, pale as death, through the veil. Hastily putting down the portrait, he darted to her side, and trembling with intense excitement, caught her cold hands to his heart.

HE GAZED AT THE FAIR FACE IN BRIDAL ATTIRE LYING UPON THE FLOOR

"Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!" he cried, at first in a low voice, then louder and more anxiously—but she still lay there, cold and apparently lifeless.

Distracted, he looked about for help. He caught sight of the smelling bottle which Lucy had already used so often. He seized it quickly, pushed aside her veil, and held it to her nostrils.

A slight tremor passed through the beautiful limbs. Lucy moved her hand, but let it fall again. Eugene sprang up joyfully. As if she had been a feather he lifted the girl, now stirring a little. In blissful intoxication, he clasped his heart's ideal for one moment in his arms. Her breath played over his face, making him tremble with delight—carrying him out of himself, so that he pressed his lips to her's, not knowing what he did. "How has this bright creature filled my lonely life with sunshine!" he murmured sadly to himself, as with a deep sigh he laid Lucy on the sofa.

And then,—he felt the soft arms suddenly thrown about his neck. Lucy, still dazed and dreaming, had forgotten all about her wedding day, and knew nothing of her father's death. Eugene's words of love had roused her from her death-like stupor; she was conscious only of his nearness—of the intoxication of his kiss.

"Oh, Eugene," she whispered, "what a lovely dream!" She still lay with closed eyes. Eugene, speechless with delight, pressed her passionately to his beating heart. Lucy, startled, opened her eyes.

Suddenly George Elmore, his eyes blazing, stood before her, looking down upon her haughtily.

Without losing his self-command in the least he said with cutting scorn, "Oh, I am interrupting a tete-a-tete! We have a lover, have we? Just as well I have found it out in time! Ha, ha! I wish you much happiness—especially as in my own case my family would have to decline the honor of an alliance with a bankrupt's daughter!" Then he bowed coldly and went out.

Lucy, realizing the situation, uttered a cry and attempted to rise, but once again overcome with weakness, fell back with the same marble paleness upon her brow.

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VII.

Mr. Denison's funeral had already taken place some weeks. Nearly every day Lucy had been seen dressed in deep mourning, crossing to New Jersey. In her firm serious face decision showed itself as, hour after hour she bent over big ledgers, separating debts from assets, while the book-keeper stood by her side to offer her any assistance in his power.

After a long and searching examination, it became evident that the firm need not absolutely declare itself insolvent, since the great banking house in Wall Street whose reported failure had brought the catastrophe to the Denison household, had recovered itself, thanks to a favorable turn in the stock-market, and promised to reimburse all its creditors.

The Martin family, after all the severe trials it had undergone in New York, had moved back to New Jersey. Through the proved usefulness of old Martin, who now labored with redoubled eagerness to produce new and unheard of combinations of color, the prestige of the factory, which had sunk low in the silk market, now began to rise again to its former height.

Lucy and her mother, selling their fine house on Fifth Avenue, had also moved to New Jersey, in the vicinity of the works, since Lucy insisted upon superintending everything herself. She trembled with impatience and joy when Eugene's fair curly head was seen approaching the house.

On the expiration of her year of mourning she gave her hand to the man to whom her heart has long been given.

The happy couple spent their honeymoon in Italy. The high ideals which had once inflamed the young painter's heart, and later had threatened to die out in comfortless annihilation, were destined at last to take shape, and to stand before his enchanted eyes in all their beautiful reality. At last he was able, hand in hand with his beloved, to admire the art treasures of Rome, the Vatican, with its immortal paintings by Raphael, Michael Angelo and Paul Veronese. All that they had long known through copies and engravings were now before them in the original, and filled them with delight.

Eugene availed himself of the permission given to artists three days in the week to make copies in the Vatican galleries. Standing at their easels, Eugene and Lucy painted side by side, as they had once done at the Art School, with unbounded happiness beaming in their eyes. Among the masterpieces which represented the highest ideals of art, Lucy realized more and more with a palpitating heart, the omnipotence of true love.

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