tle beauty in their work might have
escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it
was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde!

"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a
timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt!
He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his
apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well,
come!" he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen,
and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah,
Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure
indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let
me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings
at his house were at an end."

"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy;
and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer."

"_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss?
When will he return?"

"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it
in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may
perhaps bring him back at once."

"Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!" Bidelot
burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere,
as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I
have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself."

Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed
interrogatively on the desk.

"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is
tragic!"

But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on
Bidelot's arm.

"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead."

"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you
mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense
that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had
yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Cure? Will you say that his work
was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who
looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come--I tell you,
no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that
achieved"--the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from
the desk to the floor--"bah, he would have