He must have hunted her from
him all his life, with his pride, his waywardness, his fitful morose
ambition. I soon read his character--for I had read another very like
it, once. But that is changed now, thank God," said Harold, softly.
"Well, so it was: the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister
stayed at home and starved."

"Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!"

"It would have been so, save for Lord Arundale's benevolence, when we
found them out at last. They lived in a miserable house, which had
but one decent room--the studio. 'Michael's room must always be
comfortable,' said Miss Meliora--I knew her at once, Olive, after all
you had told me of her. The poor little woman! she almost wept to hear
the sound of my English voice, and to talk with me about you. She said,
'she was very lonely among strangers, but she would get used to it in
time. She was not well too, but it would never do to give way--it might
trouble Michael She would get better in the spring.'"

"Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her--you went to see her
often?--I knew you would."

"There was no time," Harold answered, sadly. "The day after this we
sought out Michael Vanbrugh, in his old haunt, the Sistine Chapel. He
was somewhat discomposed, because his sister had not risen in time to
set his palette, and get all things ready in his painting-room at home.
I went thither, and found her--dying."

Harold paused--but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on--

"So sudden was the call that she would not believe it herself. She kept
saying continually, that she must contrive to rise before Michael came
back at night. Even when she knew she was dying, she seemed to think
only of him; but always in her simple, humble way. I remember how she
talked, brokenly, of some draperies she had to make for his model that
day--asking me to get some one else to do it, or the picture would be
delayed. Once she wept, saying, 'who would take care of Michael when
she was gone?' She would not have him sent for--he never liked to be
disturbed when he was at the Sistine. Towards evening she seemed to lie
eagerly listening, but he did not come home. At last she bade me give
her love to Michael: she wished he had come, if only to kiss her before
she died--he had not kissed her for thirty years. Once more, just when
she seemed passing into a death-like sleep, she half-roused herself, to
beg some one would take care that Michael's tea was all ready for him