oom except for the fire.

"What does he say of us to-day?"

The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always
croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it,
his face in the shadow still.

The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile
has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco."

The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped
a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull
silvery glimmer over it.

"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's.
I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not
been lonely. Friends are faithful"--he pressed the youth's warm hand.
"His Majesty?"--the voice ended with a question.

"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how
bright it grows."

The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise
physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?"

"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes----"

"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will
be few bequests. My pictures--they are mine no longer. Should a painter
barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They
are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand.
He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could
not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles.
He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking
long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be
the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on
the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said
softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He
gave you back to me. You will be his--his and his children's. I have no
child----At least.... Ah, well--Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona
will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has
rested on my work. Crumbling--fading--nothing finished. I planned so
much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished.
My manuscripts--do with them what you will. I could not even write like
other men--this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling
across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they
fluttered from his fingers. "A