ou'll forgive me now, old girl--won't you?' he said, kissing her
photograph in an effusion that brought the moisture to his eyes. Then
he replaced it, with the sketches, in the drawer, forgetting in his
excitement the letters which lay scattered on the table.

What should he do now? Impossible to settle down to any work! The
North post had gone, but he might telegraph to Phoebe and write
later. Meanwhile he would go over to Chelsea, and see Cuningham and
Watson--repay Watson his debt!--or promise it at least for the morrow,
when he should have had time to cash the cheque--perhaps even--pompous
thought!--to open a banking account.

Suddenly a remembrance of Morrison crossed his mind and he stood a
moment with bent head--sobered--as though a ghost passed through the
room. Must he send a hundred pounds to Mrs. Morrison? He envisaged
it, unwillingly. Already his treasure seemed to be melting away. Time
enough, surely, for that. He and Phoebe had so much to do--to get a
house and furnish it, to pay pressing bills, to provide models for the
new picture! Why, it would be all gone directly!

He locked up the cheque safely, took his hat, and was just running
out when his eye fell on the three-hours' sketch of Madame de
Pastourelles, which had been the foundation of the portrait. He had
recently framed it, but had not yet found a place for it. It stood
on the floor, against the wall. He took it up, looked at it with
delight--by Jove! it was a brilliant thing!--and placing it on a small
easel, he arranged two lamps with moveable shades, which he often used
for drawing in the evening, so as to show it off. There was in him
more than a touch of theatricality, and as he stood back from this
little arrangement to study its effect, he was charmed with his own
fancy. There she queened it, in the centre of the room--his patron
saint, and Phoebe's. He knew well what he owed her--and Phoebe should
soon know. He was in a hurry to be off; but he could not make up his
mind--superstitiously--to put out the lights. So, after lingering a
few moments before her, in this tremor of imagination and of pleasure,
he left her thus, radiant and haloed!--the patron saint in charge.

On his way out he found an anxious landlady upon his path. Mrs. Gibbs
was soon made happy, so far as promises could do it, and in another
minute he was in a hansom speeding westward. It was nearly seven
o'clock on a mild April evening. The streets were full, the shops
sti