."

She had intended by this remark to lead up to a conversation about
careers and experiences; but the only answer was a meaning, yet
reserved, smile from the mouth of which she spoke. Angelica was a girl
of delicate feeling; she was naturally burning with curiosity to learn
more of the past life of her admired conquest. But, after the repulse
of her first attempts, she was much too proud to beg for a confidence
that was not proffered. For this self-denial she was to-day to be
rewarded, for Julie suddenly opened her lips, and said with a sigh:

"You are one of the happiest human beings I ever knew, Angelica."

"Hm!" replied the artist. "And why do I seem so?"

"Because you are not only free, but know how to make some use of your
freedom."

"If it were only a good use! But do you really believe, dear Julie,
that my pictures of 'flower, fruit, and thorn pieces,' and my bungling
attempts to imitate God's likeness, have made me imagine that I am an
especially interesting example of my class? Dearest friend, what you
call happiness is really only the well-known 'German happiness'--a
happiness, because it is not a greater unhappiness--a happiness of
necessity."

"I can well understand," continued Julie, "that a moment never comes
when one feels perfectly contented; when one, so to speak, has reached
the summit of the mountain, and looks around and says: there is nothing
higher than this, unless one steps straight into the clouds. But yet
you love your art, and I think you can busy yourself all day, your
whole life long, with anything you love--"

"If I only knew whether it loved me in return! Don't you see, there
lies the rub; a most 'devilish' rub, Herr Rosebud would say. Are
you really consecrated to art--I mean consecrated by the grace of
God--when, if it hadn't been for the merest chance in the world, you
would never have touched a brush?"

"You would never have touched a brush!"

"Certainly; but instead of it a common kitchen-spoon and similar
household utensils. Why do you look at me incredulously? Do you think I
have been all my life a plain old maid? I, too, was once seventeen
years old, and by no means ill-looking--naturally not to be compared to
what is now sitting opposite me--not a regular feature in my whole
pretty face, no form, no style, merely the ordinary _beaute du diable_.
But, if one may trust certain evidences--though my archives of sonnets,
ball-favors, and other delicate offerings of the sor