ts upon his work. He
experienced a desire to attain excellence for _its own sake_, not for
the petty ambition of _excelling others_. Thus he became very popular
among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever
awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined
to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation
for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was
nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love
of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which
the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and
perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly
floated through his brain.

The young Carolinian was called an enthusiast even by his French
fellow-students, with whom enthusiasm is an inheritance; but his
enthusiasm was allied to a severely critical taste,--a rare combination;
and being grafted upon the tree of _practicability_, indigenous to the
soil of his young country, it brought down his ideal conceptions into
actual execution.

The philosopher of the present day scouts at _enthusiasm_; but what
agent is half so mighty in giving the needful spur to genius? Enthusiasm
kindles a new flame in the chilled soul when the ashes of disappointment
have extinguished its fires; enthusiasm reinvigorates and braces the
spirit that has become weary and enervated in the oppressive atmosphere
of uncongenial _entourage_; enthusiasm is the cool, refreshing breeze of
a warm climate and the blazing log of a cold. Ronald's unexhausted
enthusiasm was the secret fountain whose waters nourished laurels for
him in the gardens of success.

M. de Bois, when he had concluded his letter, found the art-student at
the bedside of Maurice.

"I will post your letter, if you please," said Ronald; "then I will make
a moment's descent into the studio, or some of those noisy madcaps will
be rushing here after me. I will return, however, before long, if you
have no objection."

Hardly waiting for M. de Bois's courteous, but rather slowly-expressed
acknowledgment, he hurried away.

For a couple of hours Gaston sat beside Maurice, listening to his
indistinct ravings, and tracing out that striking likeness to a
countenance he had studied too closely for his own peace. Now and then
he exchanged a word or two with the good "sister," as she moistened the
lips, or bathed the brow of the suffer