ss Gray, I have somewhat forgotten them. Have you them here?
That is right. Put them up before you, and describe them to me. Let me
hear how they struck you, as pictures." Jane rose, and went to the
window. She threw it open; and as she breathed in the fresh air,
breathed out a passionate prayer that her nerve, her voice, her
self-control might not fail her, in this critical hour. She herself had
been convicted by Garth's pictures. Now she must convince Garth, by her
description of them. He must be made to believe in the love he had
depicted.

Then Nurse Rosemary sat down; and, in the gentle, unemotional voice,
which was quite her own, described to the eager ears of the blind
artist, exactly what Jane had seen in the studio.

It was perfectly done. It was mercilessly done. All the desperate,
hopeless, hunger for Jane, awoke in Garth; the maddening knowledge that
she had been his, and yet not his; that, had he pressed for her answer
that evening, it could not have been a refusal; that the cold
calculations of later hours, had no place in those moments of ecstasy.
Yet--he lost her--lost her! Why? Ah, why? Was there any possible reason
other than the one she gave?

Nurse Rosemary's quiet voice went on, regardless of his writhings. But
she was drawing to a close. "And it is such a beautiful crimson
rambler, Mr. Dalmain," she said. "I like the idea of its being small
and in bud, in the first picture; and blooming in full glory, in the
second."

Garth pulled himself together and smiled. He must not give way before
this girl.

"Yes," he said; "I am glad you noticed that. And, look here. We will
not destroy them at once. Now they are found, there is no hurry. I am
afraid I am giving you a lot of trouble; but will you ask for some
large sheets of brown paper, and make a package, and write upon it:
'Not to be opened,' and tell Margery to put them back in the studio.
Then, when I want them, at any time, I shall have no difficulty in
identifying them."

"I am so glad," said Nurse Rosemary. "Then perhaps the plain lady--"

"I cannot have her spoken of so," said Garth, hotly. "I do not know
what she thought of herself--I doubt if she ever gave a thought to self
at all. I do not know what you would have thought of her. I can only
tell you that, to me, hers is the one face which is visible in my
darkness. All the loveliness I have painted, all the beauty I have
admired, fades from my mental vision, as wreaths of mist; flutters