oke. He was pleased with the commission, and began to work at it
eagerly. Lady Charteris came with Valentine, and remained with her
during the long sittings, doing everything in her power to please and
win the artist's timid wife.

The fair face, in its calm, Grecian beauty, grew upon the canvas. Many
a long hour, when Ronald was absent, Dora lingered over it. The
portrait had a strange fascination for her. She dwelt upon every
feature until, if the lips had opened and smiled a mocking smile at
her, she would not have felt greatly surprised. It was less a picture
to her than a living, breathing reality. She would watch Ronald as he
worked at it, eager and enthusiastic; then, looking up and finding her
dark eyes riveted upon him with so strange an expression, he would call
her to see what progress he had made; and, never dreaming of the
growing jealousy in Dora's heart, speak with an artist's delight of the
peerless features.

Without any great or sudden change, day by day Dora grew more silent
and reserved. She was learning to hide her thoughts, to keep her
little troubles in her own heart and ponder them. The time was past
when she would throw herself into Ronald's arms and weep out her
sorrows there.

Ronald did not notice the change. Home seemed very dull. It was a
great pleasure to leave the solitary little villa and sit in the
brilliant salon of Lady Charteris's well-appointed home. It was
pleasant to exchange dull monotony for sparkling conversation and gay
society.

Valentine had many admirers. Every one knew the Prince di Borgesi
would gladly have laid his fortune and title at her feet; but she cared
for neither. Ronald often watched her as noble and learned men offered
their homage to her. She smiled brightly, spoke well and gracefully;
but he never saw in her face the look he once remembered there. Lady
Charteris deplored her daughter's obstinacy. She took Ronald into her
confidence, and confided to him her annoyance when one suitor after
another was dismissed.

Ronald was not particularly vain. Like most men, he had a pleasing
consciousness of his own worth; but he could not help remembering his
mother's assurance that Valentine cared for him. Could it have been
true? Was there ever a time when that beautiful girl, so indifferent
to all homage, cared for him? Could there have been a time when the
prize for which others sighed in vain was within his grasp and he
slighted it?

He did n