Greek girl," finishes Miss Juliet quietly, glancing for the
first time at her sister. "They say your mother was very beautiful,
Hyacinthe."

"Yes the madre is beautiful: she is like the Venus of the Capitol."

Miss King utters a woeful "Ah!" which her sister endeavors to smother
in some kind inquiry.

When Hyacinthe has been shown to her room by the sober housemaid,
the two old ladies discuss the situation in full, and Miss Juliet's
gentleness so far prevails over Miss King's frigid despair as to wring
from the latter a tardy promise to let the young niece pursue the
frightful tenor of her way, at least for a time.

A week after her arrival in London, the girl, having informed herself
with a marvellous quickness of intelligence on various practical
points, calmly laid her plans before her aunts, the elder of whom
listened in frigid silence, the younger with assurances of assistance
and counsel. She then proceeded to put her projects into action with a
curious matter-of-factness that, considering the purely ideal nature
of her aim, is to be accounted for in no other way than by the
recollection of her parentage--the Greek soul and the British brain.

On a Wednesday morning Hyacinthe and Miss Juliet repaired to the
studio of a great sculptor: the niece had previously written to him
stating her desire, and the aunt, nervous and excited, clung to the
girl's firm arm in a kind of terror.

"You wish to know if you have a talent for my art?" he asked kindly,
looking into the pallid young face with its earnest uplifted look. "I
think that had you the least gift that way, having lived in Rome, you
would know it without my assistance. However, here is a bit of clay:
we shall soon see. Try what your fingers can make of it--if a cup like
this one." He turned off, but watched her, nevertheless, with fixed
curiosity as she handled the lump of damp earth.

Hyacinthe could make nothing of it save twist it from one shapeless
mass into another.

"I had hoped it would be sculpture," she said a bit regretfully as she
left the great man's workroom. "In my dream _he_ was a statue."

On Thursday the two went to the atelier of a renowned painter. He too
bent curious interested eyes upon the absorbed and searching face of
his strange applicant as he placed pencils, canvas and brushes before
her, and directed her to look for a model to the simple vase that
stood opposite or to the bust of Clyte that was beside her. But
Hyacinthe had n