photograph myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you
wished it, only one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde
could return to you when he had done with it."

Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. "When he had done with it?
Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed,
drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by
every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of
every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I'd as soon give you the picture
itself: why don't you ask for that?"

"Well, sir," said Wyant calmly, "if you will trust me with it, I'll
engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but
Clyde's see it while it is out of your keeping."

The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst
into a laugh.

"Upon my soul!" he said with sardonic good humor.

It was Miss Lombard's turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words
and her father's unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her
depth.

"Well, sir, am I to take the picture?" Wyant smilingly pursued.

"No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind
that,--nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla," he cried with sudden
passion, "swear to me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No
photograph, no sketch--now or afterward. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, father," said the girl quietly.

"The vandals," he muttered, "the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it
would ever get into their hands I'd burn it first, by God!" He turned
to Wyant, speaking more quietly. "I said you might come back--I never
retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde
shall see the notes you make."

Wyant was growing warm.

"If you won't trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to
show my notes!" he exclaimed.

The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile.

"Humph!" he said; "would they be of much use to anybody?"

Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience.

"To Clyde, I hope, at any rate," he answered, holding out his hand. The
doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: "When
shall I come, sir?"

"To-morrow--to-morrow morning," cried Miss Lombard, speaking suddenly.

She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"The picture is hers," he said to Wyant.

In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman