Dennis went home in a strange tumult of hopes and fears, but hope predominated, for evidently she cared little for Mr. Mellen. "The ice is broken at last," he said. It was, but he was like to fall through into a very cold bath, though he knew it not. He was far too excited to sleep, and sat by his open window till the warm June night grew pale with the light of coming day.

Suddenly a bright thought struck him; a moment more and it became an earnest purpose. "I think I can paint something that may express to her what I dare not put in words."

He immediately went up into the loft and prepared a large frame, so proportioned that two pictures could be painted side by side, one explanatory and an advance upon the other. He stretched his canvas over this, and sketched and outlined rapidly under the inspiration of his happy thought.

Christine came with her father to the store, as had been her former custom, and her face had its old expression. The listless, disappointed look was gone. She passed on, not appearing to see him while with her father, and Dennis's heart sank again. "She surely knew where to look for me if she cared to look," he said to himself. Soon after he went to the upper show-room to see to the hanging of a new picture.

"I am so glad your taste, instead of old Schwartz's mathematics, has charge of this department now," said a honeyed voice at his side. He was startled greatly.

"What is the matter? Are you nervous, Mr. Fleet? I had no idea that a lady could so frighten you."

He was blushing like a girl, but said, "I have read that something within, rather than anything without, makes us cowards."

"Ah, then you confess to a guilty conscience?" she replied, with a twinkle in her eye.

"I do not think I shall confess at all till I have a merciful confessor," said Dennis, conscious of a deeper meaning than his light words might convey.

"'The quality of mercy is not strained,' therefore it is unfit for my use. I'll none of it, but for each offence impose unlimited penance."

"But suppose one must sin?"

"He must take the consequences then. Even your humane religion teaches that;" and with this parting arrow she vanished, leaving him too excited to hang his picture straight.

It all seemed a bewildering dream. Being so thoroughly taken by surprise and off his guard, he had said far more than he meant. But had she understood him? Yes, better than he had himself, and laughed at his answers with their covert meanings.

She spent the next two days in sketching and outlining his various expressions as far as possible from memory. She would learn to catch those evanescent lines—that something which makes the human face eloquent, though the lips are silent.

Dennis was in a maze, but he repeated to himself jubilantly again, "The ice is broken." That evening at Mr. Bruder's he asked for studies in ice.

"Vy, dat is out of season," said Mr. Bruder, with a laugh.

"No, now is just the time. It is a nice cool subject for this hot weather. Please oblige me; for certain reasons I wish to be able to paint ice perfectly."

Arctic scenery was Mr. Bruder's forte, on which he specially prided himself. He was too much of a gentleman to ask questions, and was delighted to find the old zest returning in his pupil. They were soon constructing bergs, caves, and grottoes of cold blue ice. Evening after evening, while sufficient light lasted, they worked at this study. Dennis's whole soul seemed bent on the formation of ice. After a month of labor Mr. Bruder said, "I hope you vill get over dis by fall, or ve all freeze to death."

"One of these days I shall explain," said Dennis, smiling.

The evening of the second day after the little rencounter in the show-room, Mr. Ludolph sat enjoying his cigar, and Christine was at the piano playing a difficult piece of music.

"Come, father," she said, "here is a fine thing just from Germany. There is a splendid tenor solo in it, and I want you to sing it for me."

"Pshaw!" said her father, "why did I not think of it before?" and he rang the bell. "Here, Brandt, go down to the store, and if Mr. Fleet is there ask him if he will come up to my rooms for a little while."

Brandt met Dennis just starting for his painting lesson, but led him a willing captive, to give Christine instruction unconsciously.

She, whose strategy had brought it all about, smiled at her success. It was not her father's tenor she wanted, but Dennis's face; and her father should unknowingly work her will. The girl had learned so much from the wily man of the world that she was becoming his master.

Dennis came and entered with a thrill of delight what was to him enchanted ground. Mr. Ludolph was affable, Christine kind, but she looked more than she said.

Dennis sang the solo, after one or two efforts, correctly. Then Mr. Ludolph brought out a piece of music that he wished to try; Christine found others; and before they knew it the evening had passed. Quite a knot of delighted listeners gathered in the street opposite. This Christine pointed out to her father with evident annoyance.

"Well, my dear," he said, "hotel life in a crowded city renders escape from such things impossible."

But a purpose was growing in her mind of which she spoke soon after. Throughout the evening she had studied Dennis's face as much as she could without attracting notice, and the thought grew upon her that at last she had found a path to the success she so craved.

"You seem to have gone to work with your old interest," said her father, as he came out of his room the next morning and found Christine at her easel.

"I shall try it again," she said, briefly.

"That is right," said he. "The idea of being daunted by one partial failure! I predict for you such success as will satisfy even your fastidious taste."

"We shall see," she said. "I hope, too." But she would not have her father know on what grounds. He might regard the experiment as a dangerous one for herself as well as for Dennis, and she decided to keep her plan entirely secret.

She now came to the store daily, and rarely went away without giving Dennis a smile or word of recognition. But he noticed that she ever did this in a casual manner, and in a way that would not attract attention. He also took the hint, and never was obtrusive or demonstrative, but it was harder work for his frank nature. When unobserved, his glances grew more ardent day by day. So far from checking these, she encouraged them, but, when in any way he sought to put his feelings into words, she changed the subject instantly and decidedly. This puzzled him, for he did not understand that looks could be painted, but not words. The latter were of no use to her. But she led him on skilfully, and, from the unbounded power his love gave her, played upon his feelings as adroitly as she touched her grand piano.

Soon after the company at Miss Winthrop's, she said to him, "You received several invitations the other evening, did you not?"

"Yes."

"Accept them. Go into society. It will do you good." Thus he soon found himself involved in a round of sociables, musicales, and now and then a large party. Christine was usually present, radiant, brilliant, the cynosure of all eyes, but ever coolly self-possessed. At first she would greet him with distant politeness, or pretend not to see him at all, but before the evening was over would manage to give him a half-hour in which she would be kind and even gentle at times, but very observant. Then for the rest of the evening he would find no chance to approach. It appeared that she was deeply interested in him, enjoyed his society, and was even becoming attached to him, but that for some reason she determined that no one should notice this, and that matters should only go so far. Poor Dennis could not know that he was only her unconscious instructor in painting, paid solely in the coin of false smiles and delusive hopes. At times, though, she would torture him dreadfully. Selecting one of her many admirers, she would seem to smile upon his suit, and poor Dennis would writhe in all the agonies of jealousy, for he was very human, and had all the normal feeling of a strong man. She would then watch his face grow pale and his manner restless, as quietly and critically as an entomologist regards the struggles of an insect beneath his microscope. Again, she would come to him all grace and sweetness, and his fine face would light up with hope and pleasure. She would say honeyed nothings, but study him just as coolly in another aspect.

Thus she kept him hot and cold by turns—now lifting him to the pinnacle of hope, again casting him down into the valley of fear and doubt. What she wanted of him was just what she had not—feeling, intense, varied feeling, so that, while she remained ice, she could paint as if she felt; and with a gifted woman's tact, and with the power of one loved almost to idolatry, she caused every chord of his soul, now in happy harmony, now in painful discord, to vibrate under her skilful touch. But such a life was very wearing, and he was failing under it. Moreover, he was robbing himself of sleep in the early morning, that he might work on his picture in the loft of the store, for which he asked of poor Mr. Bruder nothing but ice.

Mrs. Bruder worried over him continually.

"You vork too hart. Vat shall we do for you? Oh, my fren, if you love us do not vork so hart," she would often say. But Dennis would only smile and turn to her husband in his insatiable demand for painted ice. At last Mr. Bruder said, "Mr. Fleet, you can paint ice, as far as I see, as veil as myself."

Then Dennis turned around short and said, "Now I want warm rosy light and foliage; give me studies in these."

"By de hammer of Thor, but you go to extremes."

"You shall know all some day," said Dennis, entering on his new tasks with increasing eagerness.

But day by day he grew thinner and paler. Even Christine's heart sometimes relented; for, absorbed as she was in her own work and interests, she could not help noticing how sadly he differed from the vigorous youth who had lifted the heavy pictures for her but a few short weeks ago. But she quieted herself by the thought that he was a better artistic subject, and that he would mend again when the cool weather came.

"Where shall we go for the two hot months?" asked her father the morning after the Fourth.

"I have a plan to propose," replied Christine. "Suppose we go to housekeeping."

"What!" said her father, dropping his knife and fork, and looking at her in astonishment. "Go to all the expense of furnishing a house, when we do not expect to stay here much more than a year? We should hardly be settled before we left it."

"Listen to me patiently till I finish, and then I will abide by your decision. But I think you will give me credit for having a slight turn for business as well as art. You remember Mr. Jones's beautiful house on the north side, do you not? It stands on —— Street, well back, surrounded by a lawn and flowers. There is only one other house on the block. Well, Mr. Jones is embarrassed, and his house is for sale. From inquiry I am satisfied that a cash offer would obtain the property cheaply. The furniture is good, and much of it elegant. What we do not want—what will not accord with a tasteful refurnishing—can be sent to an auction-room. At comparatively slight expense, if you can spare Mr. Fleet to help me during the time when business is dull, I can make the house such a gem of artistic elegance that it will be noted throughout the city, and next fall some rich snob, seeking to vault suddenly into social position, will give just what you are pleased to ask. In the meantime we have a retired and delightful home.

"Moreover, father," she continued, touching him on his weak side, "it will be a good preparation for the more difficult and important work of the same kind awaiting me in my own land."

"Humph!" said Mr. Ludolph, meditatively, "there is more method in your madness than I imagined. I will think of it, for it is too important a step to be taken hastily."

Mr. Ludolph did think of it, and, after attending to pressing matters in the store, went over to see the property. A few days afterward he came up to dinner and threw the deed for it into his daughter's lap. She glanced it over, and her eyes grew luminous with delight and triumph.

"See how comfortable and happy I will make you in return for this kindness," she said.

"Oh, come," replied her father, laughing, "that is not the point. This is a speculation, and your business reputation is at stake."

"I will abide the test," she answered, with a significant nod.

Christine desired the change for several reasons. There was a room in the house that would just suit her as a studio. She detested the publicity of a hotel. The furnishing of an elegant house was a form of activity most pleasing to her energetic nature, and she felt a very strong wish to try her skill in varied effect before her grand effort in the Ludolph Hall of the future.

But in addition to these motives was another, of which she did not speak to her father. In the privacy of her own home she could pursue that peculiar phase of art study in which she was absorbed. Her life had now become a most exciting one. She ever seemed on the point of obtaining the power to portray the eloquence of passion, feeling, but there was a subtile something that still eluded her. She saw it daily, and yet could not reproduce it. She seemed to get the features right, and yet they were dead, or else the emotion was so exaggerated as to suggest weak sentimentality, and this of all things disgusted her. Every day she studied the expressive face of Dennis Fleet, the mysterious power seemed nearer her grasp. Her effort was now gaining all the excitement of a chase. She saw before her just what she wanted, and it seemed that she had only to grasp her pencil or brush, and place the fleeting expressions where they might always appeal to the sympathy of the beholder. Nearly all her studies now were the human face and form, mainly those of ladies, to disarm suspicion. Of course she took no distinct likeness of Dennis. She sought only to paint what his face expressed. At times she seemed about to succeed, and excitement brought color to her cheek and fire to her eye that made her dazzlingly beautiful to poor Dennis. Then she would smile upon him in such a bewitching, encouraging way that it was little wonder his face lighted up with all the glory of hope.

If once more she could have him about her as when rearranging the store, and, without the restraint of curious eyes, could play upon his heart, then pass at once to her easel with the vivid impression of what she saw, she might catch the coveted power, and become able to portray, as if she felt, that which is the inspiration of all the highest forms of art—feeling.

That evening, Dennis, at Mr. Ludolph's request, came to the hotel to try some new music. During the evening Mr. Ludolph was called out for a little time. Availing himself of the opportunity, Dennis said, "You seem to be working with all your old zest and hope."

"Yes," she said, "with greater hope than ever before."

"Won't you show me something that you are doing?"

"No, not yet. I am determined that when you see work of mine again the fatal defect which you pointed out shall be absent."

His eyes and face became eloquent with the hope she inspired. Was her heart, awakening from its long winter of doubt and indifference, teaching her to paint? Had she recognized the truth of his assurance that she must feel, and then she could portray feeling? and had she read in his face and manner that which had created a kindred impulse in her heart? He was about to speak, the ice of his reserve and prudence fast melting under what seemed good evidence that her smiles and kindness might be interpreted in accordance with his longings. She saw and anticipated.

"With all your cleverness, Mr. Fleet, I may prove you at fault, and become able to portray what I do not feel or believe."

"You mean to say that you work from your old standpoint merely?" asked
Dennis, feeling as if a sunny sky had suddenly darkened.

"I do not say that at all, but that I do not work from yours."

"And yet you hope to succeed?" "I think I am succeeding."

Perplexity and disappointment were plainly written on his face. She, with a merry and half-malicious laugh, turned to the piano, and sung:

From Mount Olympus' snowy height
The gods look down on human life:
Beneath contending armies fight;
All undisturbed they watch the strife.

Dennis looked at her earnestly, and after a moment said, "Will you please play that accompaniment again?"

She complied, and he sang:

Your Mount Olympus' icy peak
Is barren waste, by cold winds swept:
Another height I gladly see,
Where God o'er human sorrow wept.

She turned a startled and almost wistful face to him, for he had given a very unexpected answer to her cold, selfish philosophy, which was so apt and sudden as to seem almost inspired.

"Do you refer to Christ's weeping over Jerusalem?" she asked.

"Yes."

She sat for a little time silent and thoughtful, and Dennis watched
her keenly. Suddenly her brow darkened, and she said, bitterly:
"Delusion! If He had been a God He would not have idly wept over sorrow.
He would have banished it."

Dennis was about to reply eagerly, when Mr. Ludolph entered, and music was resumed. But it was evident that Dennis's lines had disturbed the fair sceptic's equanimity.

CHAPTER XXXI

BEGUILED

Dennis returned to his room greatly perplexed. There was something in Christine's actions which he could not understand. From the time of their first conversation at Miss Winthrop's, she had evidently felt and acted differently. If her heart remained cold and untouched, if as yet neither faith nor love had any existence therein, what was the inspiring motive? Why should deep discouragement change suddenly to assured hope?

Then again her manner was equally inexplicable. From that same evening she gave him more encouragement than he had even hoped to receive for months, but yet he made no progress. She seemed to enjoy meeting him, and constantly found opportunity to do so. Her eyes were continually seeking his face, but there was something in her manner in this respect that puzzled him more than anything else. She often seemed looking at his face, rather than at him. At first Christine had been furtive and careful in her observations, but as the habit grew upon her, and her interest increased, she would sometimes gaze so steadily that poor Dennis was deeply embarrassed. Becoming conscious of this, she would herself color slightly, and be more careful for a time.

In her eagerness for success, Christine did not realize how dangerous an experiment she was trying. She could not look upon such a face as Dennis Fleet's, eloquent with that which should never fail to touch a woman's heart with sympathy, and then forget it when she chose. Moreover, though she knew it not, in addition to her interest in him as an art study, his strong, positive nature affected her cool, negative one most pleasantly. His earnest manifested feeling fell like sunlight on a heart benumbed with cold.

Thus, under the stimulus of his presence, she found that she could paint or sketch to much better purpose than when alone. This knowledge made her rejoice in secret over the opportunity she could now have, as Dennis again assisted her in hanging pictures, and affixing to the walls ornaments of various kinds.

Coming to him one morning in the store, she said, "I am going to ask a favor of you again."

Dennis looked as if she were conferring the greatest of favors. His face always lighted up when she spoke to him.

"It is very kind of you to ask so pleasantly for what you can command," he said.

"To something of the same effect you answered before, and the result was the disagreeable experience at Miss Brown's."

Dennis's brow contracted a little, but he said, heroically, "I will go to Miss Brown's again if you wish it."

"How self-sacrificing you are!" she replied, with a half-mischievous smile.

"Not as much so as you imagine," he answered, flushing slightly.

"Well, set your mind at rest on that score. Though not very merciful, as you know, I would put no poor soul through that ordeal again. In this case you will only have to encounter one of the tormentors you met on that occasion, and I will try to vouch for her better behavior." Then she added, seriously: "I hope you will not think the task beneath you. You do not seem to have much of the foolish pride that stands in the way of so many Americans, and then"—looking at him with a pleading face—"I have so set my heart upon it, and it would be such a disappointment if you were unwilling!"

"You need waste no more ammunition on one ready to surrender at discretion," he said.

"Very well; then I shall treat you with all the rigors of a prisoner of war. I shall carry you away captive to my new castle on the north side and put you at your old menial task of hanging pictures and decorating in various ways. As eastern sovereigns built their palaces and adorned their cities by the labors of those whom the fortunes of war threw into their hands, so your skill and taste shall be useful to me; and I, your head task-mistress," she added, with her insinuating smile, "will be ever present to see that there is no idling, nothing but monotonous toil. Had you not better have stood longer in the defensive?"

Dennis held out his hands in mock humility and said: "I am ready for my chains. You shall see with what fortitude I endure my captivity."

"It is well that you should show it somewhere, for you have not done so in your resistance. But I parole you on your honor, to report at such times as I shall indicate and papa can spare you;" and with a smile and a lingering look that seemed, as before, directed to his face rather than himself, she passed out.

That peculiar look often puzzled him, and at times he would go to a glass and see if there was anything wrong or unusual in his appearance. But now his hopes rose higher than ever. She had been very gracious, certainly, and invited intimate companionship. Dennis felt that she must have read his feelings in his face and manner, and, to his ingenuous nature, any encouragement seemed to promise all he hoped.

For a week after this he scarcely saw her, for she was very busy making preliminary arrangements for the occupation of her new home. But one afternoon she suddenly appeared, and said, with affected severity, "Report to-mor-row at nine A.M."

Dennis bowed humbly. She gave him a pleasant smile over her shoulder, and passed away as quickly as she had come. It seemed like a vision to him, and only a trace of her favorite perfume (which indeed ever seemed more an atmosphere than a perfume) remained as evidence that she had been there.

At five minutes before the time on the following day he appeared at the new Ludolph mansion. From an open window Christine beckoned him to enter, and welcomed him with characteristic words—"In view of your foolish surrender to my power, remember that you have no rights that I am bound to respect."

"I throw myself on your mercy."

"I have already told you that I do not possess that trait; so prepare for the worst."

She was dressed in some light summer fabric, and her rounded arms and neck were partially bare. She looked so white and cool, so self-possessed, and, with all her smiles, so devoid of warm human feeling, that Dennis felt a sudden chill at heart. The ancient fable of the sirens occurred to him. Might she not be luring him on to his own destruction? At times he almost hoped that she loved him; again, something in her manner caused him to doubt everything. But there were not, as in the case of Ulysses and his crew, friendly hands to bind and restrain, or to put wax in his ears, and soon the music of her voice, the strong enchantment of the love she had inspired, banished all thought of prudence. His passion was now becoming a species of intoxication, a continued and feverish excitement, and its influence was unhappy on mind and body. There was no rest, peace, or assurance in it, and the uncertainty, the tantalizing inability to obtain a definite satisfying word, and yet the apparent nearness of the prize, wore upon him. Sometimes, when late at night he sat brooding over his last interview, weighing with the nice scale of a lover's anxiety her every look and even accent, his own haggard face would startle him.

Then again her influence was not morally good, and his interest declined in everything save what was connected with her.

Conscience at times told him that he was more bent on gaining her love for himself than in winning it for God. He satisfied himself by trying to reason that when he had won her affection his power for good would be greater, and thus, while he ever sought to look and suggest his own love in nameless little ways, he made less and less effort to remind her of a better love than even his. Moreover, she never encouraged any approach to sacred themes, sometimes repelling it decidedly, and so, though he would scarcely acknowledge it, the traitorous fear sprung up, that in speaking of God's love he might mar his chances of speaking of his own.

In the retirement of his own room, his reveries grew longer, and his prayers shorter and less inspired by faith and earnestness. At the mission school, Susie Winthrop noticed with regret that the lesson was often given in a listless, preoccupied manner; and even the little boys themselves missed something in the teacher once so interesting and animated. From witnessing his manner when with Christine, Miss Winthrop had more than suspected his secret for some time, and she felt at first a genuine sympathy for him, believing his love to be hopeless. From the first she had found Dennis very fascinating, but when she read his secret in his ardent glances toward Christine, she became conscious that her interest was rather greater than passing acquaintance warranted, and, like the good, sensible girl that she was, fought to the death the incipient fancy. At first she felt that he ought to know that Christine was pledged to a future that would render his love vain. But her own feelings made her so exceedingly sensitive that it was impossible to attempt so difficult and delicate a task. Then, as Christine seemed to smile upon him, she said to herself: "After all, what is their plan, but a plan, and to me a very chimerical one? Perhaps Mr. Fleet can give Christine a far better chance of happiness than her father's ambition. And, after all, these are matters in which no third person can interfere." So, while remaining as cordial as ever, she prudently managed to see very little of Dennis.

As we have seen, under Christine's merry and half-bantering words (a style of conversation often assumed with him), even the thought of caution vanished. She led him over the moderately large and partially furnished house. There were women cleaning, and mechanics at work on some of the rooms. As they passed along she explained the nature of the decorations she wished. They consisted largely of rich carvings in wood, and unique frames.

"I wish you to help me design these, and see that they are properly put up, and to superintend the fresco-painters and mechanics in general. Indeed, I think you are more truly my prime-minister than my captive."

"Not less your captive," said Dennis, with a flush.

She gave him a bewildering smile, and then studied its effect upon him. He was in Elysium, and his eyes glowed with delight at her presence and the prospect before him. At last she led him into two large apartments on the second floor that opened into each other, and said, "These are my rooms; that yonder is my studio," as was evident from the large easel with canvas prepared upon it.

They at once had to Dennis all the sacredness of a shrine.

"I intend to make these rooms like two beautiful pictures," said
Christine, "and here shall be the chief display of your taste."

Dennis could scarcely believe his ears, or realize that the cold, beautiful girl who a few short months ago did not notice him now voluntarily gave him such opportunities to urge his suit. The success that a man most covets seemed assured, and his soul was intoxicated with delight. He said, "You intimated that my tasks might be menial, but I feel as I imagine a Greek artist must have done, when asked to decorate the temple of a goddess."

"I think I told you once before that your imagination overshadowed your other faculties."

Her words recalled the painted girl whom she by a strange coincidence so strongly resembled. To his astonishment he saw the same striking likeness again. Christine was looking at him with the laughing, scornful expression that the German lady bent upon the awkward lover who kneeled at her feet. His face darkened in an instant.

"Have I offended you?" she asked, gently; "I remember now you did not admire that picture."

"I liked everything about it save the expression of the girl's face. I think you will also remember that I said that such a face should be put to nobler uses."

Christine flushed slightly, and for a moment was positively afraid of him. She saw that she must be more careful, for she was dealing with one of quick eye and mind. At the same time her conscience reproached her again. The more she saw of him the more she realized how sincere and earnest he was; how different from ordinary society-men, to whom an unsuccessful suit to a fair lady is a mere annoyance. But she was not one to give up a purpose readily for the sake of conscience or anything else, and certainly not now, when seemingly on the point of success. So she said, with a slight laugh, "Do not compare me to any of those old pagan myths again;" and having thus given a slight reason, or excuse, for her unfortunate expression, she proceeded to beguile him more thoroughly than ever by the subtile witchery of smiles, glances, and words, that might mean everything or nothing.

"You seem to have a study on your easel there," said Dennis, as they stood together in the studio. "May I see it?"

"No," said she; "you are to see nothing till you see a triumph in the portrayal of feeling and lifelike earnestness that even your critical eye cannot condemn."

She justly feared that, should he see her work, he might discover her plan; for, however she might disguise it, something suggesting himself entered into all her studies.

"I hope you will succeed, but doubt it."

"Why?" she asked, quickly.

"Because we cannot portray what we cannot feel. The stream cannot rise higher than its fountain." Then he added, with heightened color and some hesitation, "I fear—your heart is still sleeping"; and he watched with deep anxiety how she would take the questioning remark.

At first she flushed almost angrily; but, recovering self-possession in a moment, she threw upon him an arch smile, suggesting all that a lover could wish, and said: "Be careful, Mr. Fleet; you are seeking to penetrate mysteries that we most jealously guard. You know that in the ancient temple there was an inner sanctuary which none might enter."

"Yes, one might," said Dennis, significantly.

With her long lashes she veiled the dark blue eyes that expressed anything but tender feeling, and yet, so shaded, they appeared as a lover would wish, and in a low tone she answered, "Well, he could not enter when he would, only when permitted."

She raised her eyes quickly to see the effect; and she did see an effect that she would have given thousands to be able to transfer to canvas.

His face, above all she had ever seen, seemed designed to express feeling, passion; and his wearing life had made it so thin, and his eyes were so large and lustrous, that the spiritual greatly predominated, and she felt as if she could almost see the throbs of the strong, passionate heart.

Apart from her artistic purposes, contact with such warm, intense life had for Christine a growing fascination. She had not realized that in kindling and fanning this flame of honest love to sevenfold power and heat, she might be kindled herself. When, therefore, she saw the face of Dennis Fleet eloquent with the deepest, strongest feeling that human features can portray, another chord than the artistic one was touched, and there was a low, faint thrill of that music which often becomes the sweetest harmony of life.

"And at some time in the future may I hope to enter?" he asked, tremulously.

She threw him another smile over her shoulder as she turned to her easel—a smile that from a true woman would mean, You may, but which from many would mean nothing, and said, vaguely, "What is life without hope?" and then, as matters were going too fast and far, decisively changed the subject.

Seated at her easel she painted eagerly and rapidly, while he measured the space over and around the fireplace with a view to its ornamentation. She kept the conversation on the general subject of art, and, though Dennis knew it not, every glance at his face was that of a portrait-painter.