To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I couldn’t sit down for a week!” “Oh, how terrible for you. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. You did not see me, I know. He waved a cordial goodbye. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. “I HAVE—had one or two talks with him, daddy. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. All she had found was the love of this dog.
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