oonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the
skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it
intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow
of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and
faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came
limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the
upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by
the drought-shrunk river. Maisie's head fell forward on the window-sill,
and the tangle of black hair covered her arms.

'Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill.'

'Yes, dear; yes, dear.' She staggered to her bed like a wearied child,
and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, 'I think--I
think....

But he ought to have written.'

Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and
turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist,
but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie
was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of
the work.

She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca
coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw neither
pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one
Binat. 'You have all done not so badly,' he would say. 'But you shall
remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and
the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also
the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I
taught,'--here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get
their tubes together,--'the very so many that I have taught, the best
was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge
was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all
that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only,
he had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,--the best
of my pupils,--and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad
to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with
conviction.'

He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the
pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to
make plans for the cool of the afternoon.

Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to
grimace before it, and was hurrying across