amid silence as heavy and impressive as that in a church.

Perched on top of a high stool, her fingers skillfully, yet delicately
plying the brush, a young woman sat copying one of Raphael's Madonnas.
The picture showed the Virgin, radiant and beatified, holding the chubby
Infant Jesus, while Joseph, slightly in the background, looks benignly
on. The coloring in the original was wonderful. The transparent blue of
Mary's gown, the living flesh tints of both mother and Child were
well-nigh unattainable with modern pigments, and the young artist,
descending from the stool to get a better perspective, made a gesture of
discouragement as she realized how far her own work fell short.

She was a tall, striking-looking brunette with large dark eyes and
classic features crowned by a mass of black hair, carelessly yet not
unbecomingly arranged. Her girlish, slender figure suggested youth,
while the delicate features and a broad intellectual forehead indicated
refinement and more than average intelligence. Dressed in deep mourning,
the sombre garments emphasized still more sharply the extreme pallor of
her face. Her eyes were red as if from recent weeping. Just now,
however, her thoughts were concentrated on the important work on hand,
and so engrossed was she in her painting that she did not hear a man's
approaching footsteps. He was close up to her before she was aware of
his proximity.

"Well, Paula," he called out in stentorian tones, "how is it going?"

Startled, the young girl turned quickly. When she saw who it was, her
face broke into a smile.

"Oh, Mr. Ricaby, how you frightened me! I did not hear you coming. These
galleries are so lonely that even one's friends scare one." Pointing to
the canvas resting on the easel in front of her, she exclaimed
gleefully: "See how hard I've been working!"

The newcomer, a smooth-faced man of forty with whitening hair and kind
gray eyes, smiled indulgently as he silently noted the morning's
progress. Yet his attention was not given exclusively to the picture. By
the glance he gave the canvas and the way he looked at the artist, a
keen observer might have guessed which he admired most. That he was in
love with the girl was plain enough on the circumstantial evidence
alone, nor was it less clear that either she was ignorant of his
feelings, or did not care. True, he was old enough to be her father. To
her, he was a good friend, nothing more. Long ago he had realized this,
and the l