ation of your soul and feelings, virtue goes out of you? And I
will tell you why, if you will not think it an offence. In opening your
hearts you feel that you lose authority. You are officers, and must
never forget that. Is it not so?"

Pierson grew red. "I hope there is another feeling too. I think we
feel that to speak of our sufferings or, deeper feelings is to obtrude
oneself, to make a fuss, to be self-concerned, when we might be
concerned with others."

"Monsieur, au fond we are all concerned with self. To seem selfless is
but your particular way of cultivating the perfection of self. You admit
that not to obtrude self is the way to perfect yourself. Eh bien! What
is that but a deeper concern with self? To be free of this, there is no
way but to forget all about oneself in what one is doing, as I forget
everything when I am painting. But," he added, with a sudden smile, "you
would not wish to forget the perfecting of self--it would not be right
in your profession. So I must take away this picture, must I not? It is
one of my best works: I regret much not to have finished it."

"Some day, perhaps--"

"Some day! The picture will stand still, but mademoiselle will not. She
will rush at something, and behold! this face will be gone. No; I prefer
to keep it as it is. It has truth now." And lifting down the canvas, he
stood it against the wall and folded up the easel. "Bon soir, monsieur,
you have been very good to me." He wrung Pierson's hand; and his face
for a moment seemed all eyes and spirit. "Adieu!"

"Good-bye," Pierson murmured. "God bless you!"

"I don't know if I have great confidence in Him," replied Lavendie,
"but I shall ever remember that so good a man as you has wished it. To
mademoiselle my distinguished salutations, if you please. If you will
permit me, I will come back for my other things to-morrow." And carrying
easel and canvas, he departed.

Pierson stayed in the old drawing-room, waiting for Gratian to come in,
and thinking over the painter's words. Had his education and position
really made it impossible for him to be brotherly? Was this the secret
of the impotence which he sometimes felt; the reason why charity and
love were not more alive in the hearts of his congregation? 'God knows
I've no consciousness of having felt myself superior,' he thought; 'and
yet I would be truly ashamed to tell people of my troubles and of my
struggles. Can it be that Christ, if he were on earth, would count