erely an appointment--which both of them
kept.

Hector McLane came to Paris with noble resolutions, a theory of color,
and a small allowance. Paris played havoc with all of these. He was
engaged to a nice girl at home, who believed him destined to become a
great painter; a delusion which McLane shared.

He entered with great zest into the life of a Parisian art student, but
somehow the experience did not equal his anticipations. What he had
read in books--poetry and prose--had thrown a halo around the Latin
Quarter, and he was therefore disappointed in finding the halo missing.
The romance was sordid and mercenary, and after a few months of it he
yearned for something better.

In Paris you may have nearly everything--except the something better.
It exists, of course, but it rarely falls in the way of the usually
impecunious art student. Yet it happened that, as luck was not against
the young man, he found it when he had abandoned the search for it.

McLane's theory was that art had become too sombre. The world was
running overmuch after the subdued in color. He wanted to be able to
paint things as they are, and was not to be deterred if his pictures
were called gaudy. He obtained permission to set up his easel in the
Church of Notre Dame, and in the dim light there, he endeavored to
place on canvas some semblance of the splendor of color that came
through the huge rose window high above him. He was discouraged to see
how opaque the colors in the canvas were as compared with the
translucent hues of the great window. As he leaned back with a sigh of
defeat, his wandering eyes met, for one brief instant, something more
beautiful than the stained glass, as the handiwork of God must always
be more beautiful than the handiwork of man. The fleeting glimpse was
of a melting pair of dark limpid eyes, which, meeting his, were
instantly veiled, and then he had a longer view of the sweet face they
belonged to. It was evident that the young girl had been admiring his
work, which was more than he could hope to have the professor at
Julien's do.

Lack of assurance was never considered, even by his dearest friend, to
be among McLane's failings. He rose from his painting stool, bowed and
asked her if she would not sit down for a moment; she could see the--
the--painting so much better. The girl did not answer, but turned a
frightened look upon him, and fled under the wing of her kneeling
duenna, who had not yet finished her devoti