aw that it was delicately suggestive. It represented a curving
shore, a quiet sea, and a saffron sky,--no sails on the sea, no clouds
in the sky. Upon the shore stood a solitary pine-tree, almost denuded
of branches, and against the tree leaned the slender figure of a
youth, looking dreamily across the sea to the horizon, where the
saffron colour was tinged with gold. That was all, but Madge felt sure
that it was enough; and, as she thought about it, she felt herself
very small and crude and confused, and she was conscious of a
perfectly calm and dispassionate wish to tear her own sketch in two.
She did not do so, however. There was no irritation, nor envy, nor
even displeasure, in her mind. She had not supposed that either she or
Eleanor could do anything so good as that sketch,--since one of them
could, why, that was just so much clear gain.

A moment later the studio was in a tumult. The sketches had been
handed over to the three judges, who had gone into instant
consultation over them. Mrs. Jacques had decreed, with characteristic
decision, that the judges were bound to be as prompt as the
competitors, and the award was promised within half an hour. What
wonder if the usual tumult of dispersion was increased tenfold by the
excitement of the occasion? The voices were pitched in a higher key,
the easels clattered more noisily than ever, there was a more lively
movement among the many-hued aprons, as they were pulled off and
consigned with many a shake and a flourish to their respective pegs.

[Illustration: "Eleanor's eyes had wandered to the high, broad north
window."]

"What did you paint?" asked one high voice, whose owner was
enthusiastically shaking the water from her paint-brush all over the
floor.

"I painted you--working for the prize."

"Not really!"

"Yes, really! You were just at the right angle for it, and you did
look so hopeful!"

"You can't make me believe you played such a shabby trick upon me,
Mary Downing!"

"Shabby! If you knew how good-looking you were at a three-eighths'
angle you would be grateful to me! You did have such an inspired look
for a little while,--before you got disgusted, and began to wash
out."

"Jane Rhoades did an awfully pretty thing--a white bird with a boy
running after it. But I felt perfectly certain that the little wretch
had a gun in his other hand!"

"What a fiery head you gave your angel, Mattie Stiles! He looked like
Loge in _Rheingold!_"

"I don't care,