on,
an American painter, who bent over, walking on all fours, to attack his
companions with fierce cries.

"Do you remember, Pepe?" Renovales kept saying, "What days! What joy!
What a fine companion the little girl was before her illness saddened
her!"

They dined, talking of their youth, mingling with their memories the
image of the dead. Afterwards, they walked the streets till midnight,
and Renovales was always going back to those days, recalling his
Josephina, as if he had spent his life worshiping her. Cotoner was tired
of the conversation and said "Good-by" to the master. What new hobby was
this? Poor Josephina was very interesting, but they had spent the whole
evening without talking of anything else, as though memory of her was
the only thing in the world.

Renovales started home impatiently; he took a cab to get there sooner.
He felt as anxious as if some one were waiting for him; that showy
house, cold and solitary before, seemed animated with a spirit he could
not define, a beloved soul which filled it, pervading all like perfume.

As he entered, preceded by the sleepy servant, his first glance was for
the water-color. He smiled; he wanted to bid good-night to that head
whose eyes rested on him.

For all the Josephinas who met his gaze, rising from the shadow of the
walls, as he turned on the electric lights in the parlors and hallways,
he had the same smile and greeting. He no longer was uneasy in the
presence of those faces which he had looked at in the morning with
surprise and fear. She saw him; she read his thoughts; she forgave him,
surely. She had always been so good!

He hesitated a moment on his way, wishing to go to the studios and turn
on the lights. There he could see her full length, in all her grace; he
would talk to her, he would ask her forgiveness in the deep silence of
those great rooms. But the master stopped. What was he thinking of? Was
he going to lose his senses? He drew his hand across his forehead, as if
he wanted to wipe these ideas out of his mind. No doubt it was the Asti
that led him to such absurdities. To sleep!

When he was in the dark, lying in his daughter's little bed, he felt
uneasy. He could not sleep, he was uncomfortable. He was tempted to go
out of the room and take refuge in the deserted bed-chamber as if only
there could he find rest and sleep. Oh, the Venetian bed, that princely
piece of furniture which kept his whole history, where he had whispered
words of