ehind, the opportunity appeared
favorable to the artist.

"Thou must be digging out a new philosophy, Paolo," he said laughing,
"that thou gazest up for hours at the blue October sky."

"I see no necessity for one," replied Paul wearily. "Resignation is
true philosophy and life itself teaches us that."

"Why must thou be resigned? Thou seemest to have made a pact with Lydia
of mutual self-sacrifice."

A flaming color spread suddenly over the patient's pale face. "Why dost
thou hide thyself behind the clouds, thou love-sick Apollo, and
sufferest thy flower to mourn? Must I take her by the hand and lead her
to thee?"

Paul made a motion of grief. "Thou would'st sacrifice thyself, my good
Felix," he cried, "but how could I accept such a sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice," said the Maestro, merrily cocking his Raphael cap to one
side. "We artists are terrible sinners. Since I have modelled the pure
face, since I have caught the determined look on her lips and have
spitted it in marble, like a butterfly stuck through with a pin, my
heart has as much abandoned her as any other model with which I have
succeeded, and it seems to me as if I had almost too much of the dear
child. I dream of a less gentle, less pliant being, allotted to me by
heaven, a Neapolitan woman with hooked nose, black eyes, and sharp
claws at the end of her forepaws. In a word I will paint Lydia on a
church banner for the Scalzi, but will as soon marry her as the
Madonna. I want a wife with whom I can quarrel."

Paul shook his head sadly: "Even if that were the case, how can one
tainted by suspicion, a racked cripple, a walking corpse stretch out
his arms towards this young sweet life? It would indeed be a crime."

At that minute a young pale head bowed down over him, fresh warm lips
were fastened on his pale mouth. "I will never nurse any but this
patient," she said in a low trembling voice.

"Lydia," cried Paolo in his delight. "Thou art willing to bind thy
happy destiny to that of a cripple?"

"I shall make him once more as healthy and frolicsome as the squirrel
on the tops of the trees," joyously laughed Klytia. A sunbeam of joy
passed over the face of the pale man. The artist retired however to his
studio, turned the marble bust with its face to the wall, and began
assiduously to work at the facade of Herr Belier's future house.

"Hast thou in truth chosen the Papist, the stranger as the companion of
thy life-time?" asked Erastus with a grave shake