ing others
honest,--infinitely greater. All of which were discussed at great
length at the bijou, and the bijouites always sided with the
master of the house. To an artist, said Dormer, let his art be
everything,--above wife and children, above money, above health,
above even character. Then he would put out his hand with his
jewelled finger, and stretch forth his velvet-clad arm, and soon
after lead his friend away to the little dinner at which no luxury
had been spared. But young Hamel agreed with the sermons, and not the
less because Lucy Dormer had sat by and listened to them with rapt
attention.

Not a word of love had been spoken to her by the sculptor when her
mother died, but there had been glances and little feelings of which
each was half conscious. It is so hard for a young man to speak of
love, if there be real love,--so impossible that a girl should do so!
Not a word had been spoken, but each had thought that the other must
have known. To Lucy a word had been spoken by her mother,--"Do not
think too much of him till you know," the mother had said,--not
quite prudently. "Oh, no! I will think of him not at all," Lucy had
replied. And she had thought of him day and night. "I wonder why Mr.
Hamel is so different with you?" Ayala had said to her sister. "I am
sure he is not different with me," Lucy had replied. Then Ayala had
shaken her full locks and smiled.

Things came quickly after that. Mrs. Dormer had sickened and died.
There was no time then for thinking of that handsome brow, of
that short jet black hair, of those eyes so full of fire and
thoughtfulness, of that perfect mouth, and the deep but yet soft
voice. Still even in her sorrow this new god of her idolatry was not
altogether forgotten. It was told to her that he had been summoned
off to Rome by his father, and she wondered whether he was to find
his home at Rome for ever. Then her father was ill, and in his
illness Hamel came to say one word of farewell before he started.

"You find me crushed to the ground," the painter said. Something the
young man whispered as to the consolation which time would bring.
"Not to me," said Dormer. "It is as though one had lost his eyes. One
cannot see without his eyes." It was true of him. His light had been
put out.

Then, on the landing at the top of the stairs, there had been one
word between Lucy and the sculptor. "I ought not to have intruded on
you perhaps," he said; "but after so much kindness I could