of the house oppressed her; she put on her thickest wrappings, and
took the street leading to the nearest park. A steel-grey sky, with
slowly-trailing clouds, looked down on her, and the keen, chilly wind
wafted a fine snow-powder in her face as she pressed against it. The trees
were bare, and the sere grass grew hoary as the first snow-flakes of the
season came down softly and shroud-like. The walks were deserted, save
where a hurrying form crossed from street to street, homeward bound; and
Electra passed slowly along, absorbed in thoughts colder than the frosting
that gathered on shawl and bonnet. The face and figure of the painter
glided spectrally before her at every step, and a mighty temptation
followed at its heels. Why not strangle her heart? Why not marry him and
bear his name, if, thereby, she could make his few remaining months of
existence happy, and, by accompanying him South, prolong his life even for
a few weeks? She shuddered at the suggestion, it would be such a miserable
lot.

Faster fell the snow-flakes, cresting the waves of her hair like foam, and
setting her teeth firmly, as if thereby locking the door against all
compassionating compunctions. Electra left the park and turned into a
cross-street, on which was situated an establishment where bouquets were
kept for sale. The assortment was meagre at that late hour, but she
selected a tiny bunch of delicate, fragrant, hot-house blossoms, and,
shielding them with her shawl, hastened home. The studio was brilliant with
gas-glare and warm with the breath of anthracite, but an aspect of
dreariness, silence, and sorrow predominated. On the edge of the low
scroll-sculptured mantel, supported at each corner by caryatides, perched a
large tame grey owl, with clipped wings folded, and wide, solemn, oracular
eyes fastened on the countenance of its beloved master.

With swift, noiseless steps Electra came to the red grate, and, after a
moment, drew an ottoman close to the easy chair. Perhaps its occupant
slept; perchance he wandered, with closed eyes, far down among the sombre,
dank crypts of memory. She laid her cool fingers on his hand, and held the
bouquet before him.

"My dear sir, here are your flowers; they are not as pretty as usual, but
sweet enough to atone for lack of beauty."

He fingered them caressingly, laid them against his hollow cheeks, and hid
his lips among their fragrant petals, but the starry eyes were fixed on the
features of the pupil.