that perhaps it might have been better for his advancement in life and
his estimation in the circle of society to which he belonged if more of
them had clung to him.

Hitherto the vice of avarice was the last with which he could have been
reproached. But, when his old friend filled his glass with wine, the
desire that the property left to him might prove larger than he had
expected overpowered every other feeling.

Formerly it had been welcome mainly as a testimonial of his old friend's
affection. He did not need it for his own wants; his position at court
yielded him a far larger income than he required for the modest life to
which he was accustomed. For Barbara's sake alone he eagerly hoped that
he had greatly underestimated his foster parents' possessions.

Ought he to blame her because she desired to change the life of poverty
with her father for one which better harmonized with her worth and
tastes? He himself, who had lived years in a Roman palace, surrounded by
exquisite works of the gloriously developed Italian art, and then in the
one at Brussels, furnished with imperial splendour, did not feel
perfectly content in the more than simple room which Blomberg called his
"artist workshop."

A few rude wooden chairs, a square table with clumsy feet, and an open
cupboard in which stood a few tin cups, were, the sole furniture of the
narrow, disproportionately long room, whose walls were washed with gray.
The ceiling, with its exposed beams, was blackened by the pine torches
which were often used for lights. Pieces of board were nailed over the
defective spots in the floor, and the lines where the walls met rarely
showed a right angle.

The window disappeared in the darkness. It was in the back of the niche
formed by the unusually thick walls. During the day its small, round
panes gave the old gentleman light while he guided his graving tool. A
wooden tripod supported the board on which his tools lay. The stool,
which usually stood on a wooden trestle opposite to it, now occupied a
place before the table bearing the flagon of wine, and was intended for
Barbara.

After the torches had ceased to burn, a single tallow candle in a
wrought-iron candlestick afforded the two men light, and threatened to go
out when, in the eagerness of their conversation, they forgot to use the
snuffers.

Neither curtain, carpet, nor noteworthy work of art pleased the eye in
this bare, strangely narrow room. The weapons and pieces o