rier and the rest that there was no room for any other and warmer
passion. Work was a joy by itself; the rest from it as great a joy;
and these alternations were enough to fill a life. To how many great
artists had they sufficed! and what happy lives had been led, with
no other distraction, and how glorious and successful! Only the
divine Julia, in all the universe, was worthy to be weighed in the
scales with these, and she was not for the likes of Mr. Nobody of
Nowhere.

Besides, there was the faithful Martia. Punctually every evening the
ever-comforting sense of the north filled him as he jumped into bed;
and he whispered his prayers audibly to this helpful spirit, or
whatever it might be, that had given him a sign and saved him from a
cowardly death, and filled his life and thoughts as even no Julia
could.

And yet, although he loved best to forgather with those of his own
sex, woman meant much for him! There _must_ be a woman somewhere in
the world--a needle in a bottle of hay--a nature that could dovetail
and fit in with his own; but what a life-long quest to find her! She
must be young and beautiful, like Julia--rien que ca!--and as kind
and clever and simple and well-bred and easy to live with as Aunt
Caroline, and, heavens! how many things besides, before poor Mr.
Nobody of Nowhere could make her happy, and be made happy by her!

So Mr. Nobody of Nowhere gave it up, and stuck to his work, and made
much progress, and was well content with things as they were.

He had begun late, and found many difficulties in spite of his great
natural facility. His principal stock in trade was his keen
perception of human beauty, of shape and feature and expression,
male or female--of face or figure or movement; and a great love and
appreciation of human limbs, especially hands and feet.

With a very few little pen-strokes he could give the most
marvellously subtle likenesses of people he knew--beautiful or
ordinary or plain or hideous; and the beauty of the beautiful
people, just hinted in mere outline, was so keen and true and
fascinating that this extraordinary power of expressing it amounted
to real genius.

It is a difficult thing, even for a master, to fully render with an
ordinary steel pen and a drop of common ink (and of a size no bigger
than your little finger nail) the full face of a beautiful woman,
let us say; or a child, in sadness or merriment or thoughtful
contemplation; and make it as easily and unmistak