d himself by the old
and familiar argument that it was for his art's sake.

Sibyl Andres, he seldom saw, except occasionally, in the early morning, in
the rose garden. The girl knew what he was doing--that is, she knew that
he was painting a portrait of Mrs. Taine--and so, with Myra Willard,
avoided the place. But Conrad Lagrange now, made the neighboring house in
the orange grove his place of refuge from Louise Taine, who always
accompanied Mrs. Taine,--lest the world should talk,--but who never went
as far as the studio.

But often, as he worked, the artist heard the music of the mountain girl's
violin; and he knew that she, in her own beautiful way, was trying to help
him--as she would have said--to put the mountains into his work. Many
times, he was conscious of the feeling that some one was watching him.
Once, pausing at the garden end of the studio as he paced to and fro, he
caught a glimpse of her as she slipped through the gate in the Ragged
Robin hedge. And once, in the morning, after one of those afternoons when
he had gone away with Mrs. Taine at the conclusion of the sitting, he
found a note pinned to the velvet curtain that hid the canvas on his
working easel. It was a quaint little missive; written in one of the
girl's fanciful moods, with a reference to "Blue Beard," and the assurance
that she had been strong and had not looked at the forbidden picture.

As the work progressed, Mrs. Taine remarked, often, how the artist was
changed. When painting that first picture, he had been so sure of himself.
Working with careless ease, he had been suave and pleasant in his manner,
with ready smile or laugh. Why, she questioned, was he, now, so grave and
serious? Why did he pause so often, to sit staring at his canvas, or to
pace the floor? Why did he seem to be so uncertain--to be questioning,
searching, hesitating? The woman thought that she knew. Rejoicing in her
fancied victory--all but won--she looked forward to the triumphant moment
when this splendid man should be swept from his feet by the force of the
passion she thought she saw him struggling to conceal. Meanwhile she
tempted him by all the wiles she knew--inviting him with eyes and lips and
graceful pose and meaning gesture.

And Aaron King, with clear, untroubled eye seeing all; with cool brain
understanding all; with steady, skillful hand, ruled supremely by his
purpose, painted that which he saw and understood into his portrait of
her.

So they cam