bout the room,
nervously fingering the books and trifles upon the table or the mantle,
she seemed beside herself with anxiety. She went to the window to stand
looking out as if hoping for the return of the artist. She went to the
open door of his bedroom, her hands clenched, her limbs trembling, her
face betraying the agony of her mind.

With Louise, she was leaving that evening, at four o'clock, for the
East--with the body of her husband. She could not go without seeing again
the man whom, as Mr. Taine had rightly said, she loved--loved with the
only love of which--because of her environment and life--she was capable.
She still believed in her power over him whose passion she had besieged
with all the lure of her physical beauty, but that which she had seen in
his face as he had watched the girl musician the night of the dinner,
filled her with fear. Presently, in her desperation, when the artist did
not return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best she
could, the things she had come to say.

Her letter finished, she looked at her watch. Calling the Chinaman, she
asked for a key to the studio, explaining that she wished to see her
picture. She still hoped for the artist's return and that her letter would
not be necessary. She hoped, too, that in her portrait, which she had not
yet seen, she might find some evidence of the painter's passion for her.
She had not forgotten his saying that he would put upon the canvas what he
thought of her, nor could she fail to recall his manner and her
interpretation of it as he had worked upon the picture.

In the studio, she stood before the easel, scarce daring to draw the
curtain. But, calling up in her mind the emotions and thoughts of the
hours she had spent in that room alone with the artist, she was made bold
by her reestablished belief in his passion and by her convictions that
were founded upon her own desires. Under the stimulating influence of her
thoughts, a flush of color stole into her cheeks, her eyes grew bright
with the light of triumphant anticipation. With an eager hand she boldly
drew aside the curtain.

The picture upon the easel was the artist's portrait of Sibyl Andres.

With an exclamation that was not unlike fear, Mrs. Taine drew back from
the canvas. Looking at the beautiful painting,--in which the artist had
pictured, with unconscious love and an almost religious fidelity, the
spirit of the girl who was so like the flowers among which