did not require such a confounded number of things to
live. . . . Well, we will see!"

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining room, a new and more
violent quarrel arose there, but, though Senora Petra finally called a
fainting-fit to her aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returned
to the studio with Isabella.

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his sentence. Now she stood
before him led by her father's hand-and he, he struck his forehead with
his fist, closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her--to gaze
as if he beheld a wondrous apparition. Then feeling as if he should die
of shame, grief, and joyful surprise, he stood spellbound, and knew not
what to do, save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save
"I . . . I--I," then with a sudden change of tone exclaimed like a madman:

"You don't know! I am not. . . . Give me time, master. Here, here, girl,
you must, you shall, all must not be over!"

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with the
eager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card.

Coello's daughter did not obey.

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, but a
beautiful, blooming maiden. In eighteen months her figure had gained
height; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother had
wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, her bearing
self-possessed. Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, her
half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her
raven-black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale,
charming face.

"Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!"
cried a voice in the youth's breast, but another voice whispered "Lost,
lost, forfeited, trifled away!"

Why did she not obey his call? Why did she not rush into his open arms?
Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except to
press closely to her father's side.

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard,
deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different person
from the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening heart
had first throbbed more quickly; this was not the future master, who
stood before her mind as a glorious favorite of fortune and the muse,
transfigured by joyous creation and lofty success--this defiant giant did
not look like an artist. No, no