Clara
with her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was
painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, she was at
this time so anxious as to the future welfare of her two young
friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either to
the one of to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech
came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without
going to him was impossible to her. So she went, and then took the
opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and
future conduct.

"Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed," she said, standing before
the easel, and looking at the half-completed work. "I do not know
that you ever did anything better."

"I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is
going to be good or not," said Dalrymple, thinking really of his
picture and of nothing else.

"I am sure this will be good," she said, "and I suppose it is because
you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry that
will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius; more than
this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its
gushing tides into the performance." By this time he knew all the
tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became
aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond
the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to
give him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really
desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having a
scene at the moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. "It
is the heart that gives success," she said, while he was considering
how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the
occasion.

"Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease."

"On what, Conway?"

"On elbow-grease,--hard work, that is,--and I must work hard now if
I mean to take advantage of to-day's sitting. The truth is, I don't
give enough hours of work to it." And he leaned upon his stick, and
daubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a moment
looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though
he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he
was doing.

"You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not
speak to you."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean that at all."

"I won't interrupt you at your