in them again.

"If I had gone far enough in thought," he continued, "I might have hoped
that such beauty and power as you have would have made you great and
strong enough in nature to want to help make these pictures, in spite of
everything! I believe in a slow, dull way I did think that about you
once in a while. I know I never meant to harm the woman in you, Janet;
believe me, I swear that!"

His eyes met hers and never faltered. The girl drew a long breath. Then
she shivered slightly and sighed again.

"I--I think I see, a little, what you mean," she quivered; "you thought
I was better than I am. Higher, nobler than some folks, because I am
so--so beautiful?" Not a shadow of common vanity rang through the words.
"You thought I would be glad to help in your pictures and never care
what others might think, others who cannot understand? You are a great
artist, and you thought me an artist--but in a different way? Oh! it
comes to me just as Davy's Light comes of an early morning, when the fog
lifts. What a mean, wretched thing I have been to let stings hurt, when
that splendid picture--waits--for--me!" A radiance spread over the
wistful face. Thornly was dazzled and could only stare helplessly.

"See," she had arisen, and stood before him in all her strong, young
beauty; "you need me? Without me you cannot make your splendid picture?"

Thornly shook his head.

"It is not the money you want, nor just the fame, but you want to give
the world a great joy."

"Yes, yes! As God is my witness, Janet, that is my desire."

"Then I will help. Oh! forgive me! Come, please, come, only"--here she
smiled pitifully--"please leave the door open! It shall never matter
again; nothing can change things now."

Thornly staggered to his feet and half extended his hand to draw the
girl in; then something stayed him.

"I cannot paint to-day, Janet," he whispered. "Something is changed.
Perhaps the old longing will return, but I must not trust myself until I
know. Go, little Pimpernel, you are the greater artist of us two!"

"I'm very sorry the day is spoiled," she returned brokenly; "if I had
only known more, it would have been different. It seems as if I cannot
ever forgive myself."

She turned, and went sadly over the hills with never a backward look.
And Thornly gazed after her with yearning eyes. She was taking with
her--what? Inspiration? Yes, but something deeper and more vital was
passing with that vanishing form. What wa