s worshipped by a select circle of devotees; and his
house is a temple dedicated to high art, and only profound believers are
allowed to cross the threshold. Oh dear me! I am not a believer; but how
can I help that? Mr. Lemuel is a friend of papa's, however; they have
mysterious talks over milk-jugs of colored stone, and small pictures
with gilt skies, and angels in red and blue. Well, yesterday he called
on papa, and requested his permission to ask me to sit--or, rather,
stand--for the heroine of his next great work, which is to be an
allegorical one, taken from the 'Faery Queen' or the 'Morte d'Arthur,'
or some such book. I protested; it was no use. 'Good gracious, papa,' I
said, 'do you know what he will make of me? He will give me a dirty
brown face, and I shall wear a dirty green dress; and no doubt I shall
be standing beside a pool of dirty blue water, with a purple sky
overhead, and a white moon in it. The chances are he will dislocate my
neck, and give me gaunt cheeks like a corpse, with a serpent under my
foot, or a flaming dragon stretching his jaws behind my back.' Papa was
deeply shocked at my levity. Was it for me, an artist (bless the mark!),
to baulk the high aims of art? Besides it was vaguely hinted that, to
reward me, certain afternoon-parties were to be got up; and then, when I
had got out of Merlin-land, and assured myself I was human by eating
lunch, I was to meet a goodly company of distinguished folk--great
poets, and one or two more mystic painters, a dilettante duke, and the
nameless crowd of worshippers who would come to sit at the feet of all
these, and sigh adoringly, and shake their heads over the Philistinism
of English society. I don't care for ugly mediaeval maidens myself, nor
for allegorical serpents, nor for bloodless men with hollow cheeks,
supposed to represent soldierly valor; if I were an artist, I would
rather show people the beauty of a common brick wall when the red winter
sunset shines along it. But perhaps that is only my ignorance, and I may
learn better before Mr. Lemuel has done with me."

When Macleod first read this passage, a dark expression came over his
face. He did not like this new project.

"And so, yesterday afternoon," the letter continued, "papa and I went to
Mr. Lemuel's house, which is only a short way from here; and we entered,
and found ourselves in a large circular and domed hall, pretty nearly
dark, and with a number of closed doors. It was all hushed, and