to-day--it was
finished--then there would be no excuse for her staying. No, he would go
away and lock the studio all day. What a fool he had been to allow
himself to be fascinated by her dashing beauty. What a traitor he had
been to make even a semblance of love to this bold, flashy woman of the
world--a woman who, until recently, had not even commanded his respect.

"I have been a villain," he muttered, to himself; "a villain and a
traitor, but I will be so no more. I will curb this savage nature within
me. I will abstain from drink. I will be a new man."

He sealed his resolution with a kiss pressed upon the little, tinted
letter, then placing it in an inner pocket he arranged the canvas of Eva
Delorme on the easel before him and walked backward and forward in front
of it thinking, pausing now and then to gaze long upon the beautiful,
saintly features.

"It does not do her justice," he said, at last; "there is something
about the lips and the expression that I have not caught. It is too
minute; I must darken the ground; there is not enough relief--not enough
depth."

Hastily removing his coat and the wide felt hat which he always wore on
the street, he hung them on a rack in the adjoining room, and donning
his velvet studio jacket, returned to the easel. Seizing his palette and
brushes he fell to work rapidly, and with the enthusiasm of one who is
in love with his task.

As he dashed on the broad sweeps of color from his palette, the
background gradually assumed the effect of having faded away, and the
rare face before it to have become a thing of flesh and blood. It was a
marvel of skill. He had never done anything like this before. He became
so absorbed in his work that he forgot the passing hours. The background
of the portrait complete, he began adding touches of light and shadow
and color to the drapery, to the hair, to the perfect features. He felt
that he had never painted half so well. It seemed to him that he was
inspired. He remembered the story of the artist who had painted the
portrait of his beloved, drawing the tints so truly from her life, that
when he had finished and turned to look at her with an exclamation of
triumph on his lips, she was dead. It seemed to him at this moment that
he was drawing his tints from her very life. That the intense workings
of his brain must in some manner affect her own. He paused and his hand
trembled. She was ill; what if she were to die! Pshaw! it was but a
fable