there yet. It was the one thing that could save him.

The thought had come to him so suddenly and with such marvellous
clearness that in his present exalted state of mind it filled him with a
vague sense of awe, it seemed like a manifestation, a writing on the
wall. Might it not be some sort of miracle? He had heard of men
reforming their lives, transformed almost in an instant, and had scoffed
at the idea. But might it not be true, after all? What was this
wonderful thing that had happened to him? Was this less strange than a
miracle? Less divine?

The following day Vandover rented a studio. It was the lofty room with
hardwood floors and the immense north light in that suite which he had
rejected when looking for rooms on the former occasion. He gave notice
to the clerk in the apartment house where his quarters were situated
that he intended to vacate after the first of the month. Charming as he
had found these rooms, he gave up, with scarcely a regret, the idea of
living in them any longer. In a month it would be summer and he would be
on his way to Paris.

But so great was his desire for work now, so eager was he to start the
"Last Enemy," so strong was the new energy that shook him, that Vandover
could not wait until summer to begin work again. He grudged everything
now that kept him away from his easel.

He disappeared from the sight of his ordinary companions; he did not
even seek the society of Geary or of young Haight. All the sketches he
had made for the "Last Enemy," together with his easel and his disused
palette, his colour-box, tubes, brushes and all the other materials and
tools for his work, he caused to be transferred to the new studio.
Besides this he had the stretcher made, best twill canvas on a frame
four feet long, two and a half feet high. This was for the large sketch
of the picture. But the finished work he calculated would demand an
eight by five stretcher.

He did not think of decorating the room, of putting any ornaments about
the wall. He was too serious, too much in earnest now to think of that.
The studio was not to be his lounging place, but his workshop. His art
was work with him now, hard, serious work. It was above all _work_ that
he needed to set him right again, regular work, steady, earnest work,
not the dilettante fancy of an amateur content with making pretty
things.

Never in his life had Vandover been so happy. He came and went
continually between his rooms, his studio,