Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 9, Number 43, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 26 April 1879 — Page 6

BV RtCUAHD KKA1-*.

One by one earth's wrong* are smitten, Un« by on® It* errors fall Ono by one are carved and written

Truth's greattrlumph*ov«jr all. Ons bv ODD the dreary plao&t Glow with green and gu*h with light One by one *od"fc finger trat-en

Moo as and stars upon thti night.

One by one are rent and riven All the links of hell's hot gyves One by one the chords of Heaven

Geutly, strongly clasp our liven One by oueearth bitter weantugii Leave us nearer to the aktes. One by one life's higher mpaulngs •reak like sunlight on our eytsa.

Let it pass the bleswd throbbing Of the purple heart of morn Dre* its pulaej from the sobbing

Midnight—setting in her scorn And the calm sours higher thirsting. And the light of truer eyes— Tta«*r« are but the upward bursting

Of the seeds of sacrifice.

But the American, notwithstanding be had been in the house for mouths, bad never become one of them. FIe bad been seen in the early spring goinR up the stairway to his room, which was a mere garret on the sixth story, and it bad been expected among them that in a day or so he would present himself for inspection. But this he did uot do, and when be encountered any of their number in his out going* or in-comings he returned their greetings gently In irnperleet French. H« spoke slowly and with difficulty, bat there was no coldness in his voice or manners, and yet none got much further than the greeting.

He wan a yeung fellow, scarcely of luidd!" height, frail in figure, hollow chested, ami with a gentle face and soft, deeply sec dark eyes. That he worked bard and lived barely it was easy enough to discover. Part of each day be spent in the various art galleries, and after bis return from thess visits he was seen no more until tho following morning. "Until the last ray of light disappears be is at his easel," said a young student whom a gay escapade bad temporarily banished to the fifth floor. "I hear bim move now and then «ud cough. He bas a villainous cough." "He is one of the enthusiasts," said another. "One can read it tn his face. What fools they are—these enthusiasts! They throw away life that a crown of laurel uiay be laid Uf»on their coffins."

Iu the summer some of tbem manag*«d to !ffav« Paris. the rest had pd ugrs to.orgauiiei) their little excursi 11 make th« best of the aUiiHUim*, shade and warmth. But wueu th »se who had been away returned and all aetllutl down for the wluter, they found the "American," as they called him, in hhiold place. He bad not been away si all he bad worked as bard as ever through midsummer host and autumn raiu be was frailer in figure, bis clothes were more worn, bis face was thinner and bis eyes far too hollow and bright, but he did not look either discouraged or unhappy. "How does be live?" exclaimed the concierge dramatically. "The good God knows! He eats nothing, he bas no fire, be wears the clothing of midsummer— be paints—he paints—he paints! Perhaps that is enough for him. It wjnld not be for me."

At this time-just as the winter entered with bleak winds aud rains and f* i« of p•)* i»ry snow—there presented fe*r««tf attHme Uu»m an arrival whoso aff*rattt* created a sensation. 0(M a'g \t, ©a his w.ty upstairs, tho

i-

SHE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE*.

OA'K BY ON&L

O, the weary months of sorrow! O, the long aud solemn years! O, the yearning for to tnoi row, fnat should give him Joy for tears O, the unnestltng heart's great anguish!

O, the wasting of the frame— An the love that could uot languish, And the spirit ringed with flame!

CU*p and clench the writhing spheres: Though the red flres flame and crackle Through the ghastly shuddering years Though the green earth weep uu»hriven,

And thick mildew blast the sun, Ht11i shall all, save man and heaven, Pass aud perish, one by one.

Scribner's Monthly—May.

A Story of the Latin Quarter.

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

"He is one of the A mericaus," liis fellow locatairessald among themselves. "Poor aud aloue and in bad health. A queer fellow."

Having made tbis reply to those who questioned them, they were in the habit of dismissing the subject lightly. After ail, it was nothing to ttieut, since he ha 1 never joined their circle.

They were a gay, good natured lot, and made a point of regarding life as airily as possible aud taking each day as it came with fantastic good cheer. The house—which stood in one of the shabbiest corners of the Latin Quarter—was lull or them from floor to garret—artists, students, models, Freuce, English, Americans, living, all of thorn merrily, by no uieaus the most regular of lives. Bui. there were good friends among them .their world was their own and they found plenty of sympathy in their loves and quarrels, their luck and ill luck. Upon the whole there was moro ill luck than luck. Lucky men did not choose for their headquarters such places as this rather dilapidated building— they could afford to go elsewhere, to places where th6 Quarter was better, where the stairs were less rickety, the passages less dark, aud the concierge not gi pen to chronic intoxicotiou. Here came the unlucky ones, whose ill luck was of various orders and degrees the young ones who were some day to paint pirtures which would be seen in the Palais de l'lndustrle and would be greeted with acclamations by an appreciative public the older ones who had painted pictures which had beeuseen at the Palais de l'lndustrie aud had not been appreciated at all the poets whose sonnets were of too subtle an order to reach the common herd tbo students who had lived beyond the means allowed them by their highly respectable families aud who wore consequently somewhat off color in the eyes of the respectable families in question—these and others of the same class, all more or less poor, more or less out at elbows, and more or less in debt. And yet, as I have said, they lived gayly." They painted, and admired or criticised each other'* pictures they lent and borrowed with equal freedom they beuioaued their wrongs loudly, aud sang and laughed more loudly 'still as the mool seized theui and any special ill fortune befalling one ot their number generally aroused a display of sympathy which, though it might not last long, wa9 always a source of consolation to the luckless one.

American found bimwlf confronted on the fourth door by a flood of light streaming through the open door of a before unoccupied room. It wasasmall room, meagerly furnished, but there was a tirn in it and half a dozen people who langbed and talked at the top of their voices. Five of them were men he had seen before—artlsta who lived in the house—but the sixth wa* a woman whom he had never seen and whose marvelous beauty held blm spellbound where he stood.

She was a woman of twenty-two or three, with an oval face whose fairness was the fairneaa of ivory. She waa dark eyed and low browed, and as she leaned forward upon the table and looked up at the man who spoke to her, even the bright glow of the lamp, whioh burned directly before her face, showed no flaw in either tiut or outline. "Why should we ask the reason of your return said the mau. "Let us rejoioe that you are here." "I will tell you the reason," she answered, "without lowering her eyes, was tired." "A good reason," was the reply.

She pushed her chair back and stood upright her hands huug at her sides the men were all looking at ber she smiled down at them with line irony. "Who among you wishea to paint me?" she said. "I am again at your service and 1 am not less handsome than I was."

Then there arose among them a little rapturous murmur and somehow it broke the spell which had rested upon the man outside. He started, shivered slightly and turned away. He went up to the bare coldness of his own room and sat down, forgetting that it was either cold or bare. Suddenly, as he bad looked at the woman's upturned face, a great longing bad seized upon hiiM.

I should like to paint you I," be fouud himself saying to the silence about him. "If 1 might paint you!"

He heard the next day who sho was. The concierge was ready enough to give him more information than be bad

"Mademoiselle Natalie, Monsieur means," he said a handsome girl that a celebrated model. They all know her. Her facs has been the foundation of more thau one great picture. There are not many like her. One model has this beauty—another that but she, Moti Dieu, she has all. A great creature, Mademoiselle."

Afterward, as the days went by, he found that she sat often to the other artists. Sometimes he saw her as she went to their rooms or came away: sometimes he caught a glimpse of her as he passed her open door, and each time there stirred afresh within him the longing he had felt at first. So it came about that one afternoon, as she came out of a studio in which she bad been giving a sitting, she found waiting outside for her the thinly clad, frail figure of the American. He male an eager yet hesitant step forward, a-id began to speak awkwardly in Frenca.

She stopped him. "Speak English," she said, "I know it well." "Thank you," be answered simply, "that is a great relief. My Fieocb is so bad. I ani here to ask a great favor from you, and I am sure I could not ask it well in French." "What is the favor?" she inquired, looking at him with some wonder.

He was a new type to her, with his quiet directness of speech and bis gentle manner. "I have beard that you are a professional model," he replied, "and I have wished very much to paint what—what I see in your face. I have wished it from the first hour I saw you. The desire haunts me. But I am a very poor man I have almost noth ng I cannot pay you what the rest do. To-day I came to the desperate resolve that I would throw myself upon your mercy —that I would ask you to to me, and wait until better fortune comes."

She stood still a moment and gazed at him. "Monsieur," she said at length, "are you so poor as that?"

He colored a little, but it was not as if with shame. "Yes," he answered, "I am very poor. I have asked a great deal of you, have I not?"

She gave him still another long look. "No," she said, "I will come to you to morrow if you will direct me to your room." "It is on the sixth floor," he replied "the highest of all. It is a bare little place." "I will come," she said, and was turning away when he stopped her. "I—I should like to tell you how grateful I am—"he began. "There is no need," she responded with bitter lightness. "You will p*y me some day—when you are a great artist." But when she reached the next landing she glanced down and saw that be still stood beneath, watching ber.

The next day she kept ber word and went to him. She found his room poorer snd barer even than she had fancied it might be. The ceiling was low and slanting in one corner stood a narrow iron bedstead, in another a wooden table in the best light the small window gave bis easel was placed with a chair before it.

When be had opened the door in answer to ber summons, and she saw all this, she glanced quickly at his lace to see if there was any shade of oonfusion upon it, but there was none. He appeared only rejoiced and eager.

I felt sure it was you," be said. "Were you then so sure that I would come sbe asked. "Yon said you would," he answered.

He placed her as he wished to paint her, and then sat down to bis work. In a few moments be was completely absrrbed in it. For along time be did not speak at all. The utter silence which reigned—a silence which was not only a suspension of speech but a suspension of any other thought beyond his task— was a new experience to ber. His cheek flushed, bis eyes burned dark and bright it seemed as if be scarcely breathed. When he turned to look at ber she waa conscious each time of a sudden thrill of f«*e'in%t. More than once he pausea f»r *ev«-ral moments, brush and palette in band, simply watching her face At one of these pau«*s she herself broke the silence. "Why do yon look at roe so?" sbe asked. "You look at me as If—as if And sbe broke off with an uneasy little laugh.

He roused himself with a slight start and colored sensitively, passing his hand across his forehead. "What I want to paint is not always in your face," be answered. "Sometimes I lose it, and that I must wait a little untiJ—until I find it again. It is not only tfonr face I want, it is yourself—yourself!" And be made a sudden unconscious gesture with his bands,

She tried to laugh again,—bard and lightly as before,—but foiled. *'Myself!" she said. "Mon Dieu! Do not grasp at me, Monsieur. It will not pay you. Paint my flesh, my hair, my even,—tbeyare good,—but do not paint me .4

He looked trou^ed. "I aui afraid my -Ajing tla: aoun

TBRRK HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

stilted," be returned. "I explained myself poorly. It Is not easy for me to explain myself well." "I understood," she said "and 1 have warned you,"

They did not speak to each other again during the whole sitting except once, when be asked her if she was warm enough. "I have afire to-day," he said. "Have you do not always a fire?" she asked. "No," be answered with a smile but when you come there will always be one." "Then," sbe said "I will come often, that I may save you froui death." "Ob I" he replied "it is easier than you think to forget that one is oold." "Yea," sbe returned. "And It is easier than you think for one to die."

When dhe was going away, sbe made a movement toward the easel, but be stopped her. "Not yet," he said. "Not just yet,"

Sbe drew back. "I have never cared to look at myself before," she said, "I do not know why I should care now. Perhaps," with the laugh again, "it is that I wish to see what you will make of me

Afterward, as sbe sat over her little porcelain stove in her room below, she scarcely comprehended her own mood. "He is not like the rest," she said. "He knows nothing of the world. He is one of the good. He cares only for bis art. How simple, and kind, and pure! The little room is like a saint'B cell." And then, suddenly, she flung ber arms out wearily, with a heavy sigh. "Ah, Dieti!" she said, "how dull the day is! The skies are lead!"

A few days later she gave a sitting to an old artist whose name was Masson, and she found that he bad heard of what had happened. "And so you sit to tho American," he said.

"Well—and you find him "1 find him," she repeated after, him. "Shall I tell you what I find him "I shall listen with delight." "I find him— a soul! You and I, my fritnd—and the rest of us—are bodies he is a soul!''

The artist began to whistle softly as he painted. «:ft is dangerous work," be said at length, "for women to play with souls." "That is true," she answered, coldly.

The same day she went again to the room on the sixth floorj She sat agaiu through an hour of silence in which the American painted eagerly, now and then stopping to regard her with searching eyes. "But not as the rest regard me," she said to herself. "He forgets that it Is a woman who sits here. He sees only what be would paint."

As timo went by, this fact, which she always felt, was in itself a fascination. In the chill, calm atmosphere of the place there was repose for ber. She found nothing to steel herself against, she need no longer think of herself at all. She bad time to think of the man iu whose presence she she sat. From the first she ban seen something touching in his slight stooping figure, thin young face and dark womanish eyes, and after she had beard the simple uneventual history of his life, she found them more toncbing still.

He was a New Englander, tbe last surviving representative of a frail and short-lived family. His parents had died young, leaving him quite alone, with a mere pittance to depend upon, and throughout bis whole life he had cherished but one aim. 'When I was a child I used to dream of coming here," he said, "and as I grew older I worked and struggled for it. I knew I must gain my end some day and tbe time came when it was gained." 'And this is the end sbe asked, glancing round at the poor place.

This is all of life you desire He did not look up at her. "It is all I have," he answered. Sbe wondered if would not ask ber some questions regarding herself, but be did not. "He does not 'care to know," she thought sullenly. And then she told herself that be did know, and a mocking devil of a smile suttled on ber lips and was there when he turned toward her again.

But the time never came when bis manner altered, when be was less candid and gentle, or less grateful for the favor sbe.was bestowing upon him.

She scarcely knew how it was that sbe first began to know tbe sound of bis foot upon tbe stair-way and to listen for it. Her earliest consciousness of it was when once she awakened suddenly out of a dead sleep at night and found herself sitting upright with her band upon her heavily throbbing heart. "What is it?" she cried in a loud whisper. But she spoke only to herself and the darkness. She knew what it was and did not lie down again until tde footsteps had reached tbe top of tbe last flight and the door above bad opened and closed.

The time arrived when there was scarcely a trifling incideut in his everyday life which escaped her. She saw eaob sign or his poverty and physical weakness. He grew paler day by day. There were days when his step flagged as he went up and down the staircase some mornigs he did not go out at ail. Sbe discovered that each Sunday he went twice to the little American chapel in tbe Rue de Berri, and she had seen in bis room a small Protestant Bible. "You read that sbe asked him when sbe first saw it. "Yes."

Sbe leaned forward, ber look curious, bewildered, even awed. "Andyou believe in—God?" "Yes."

She resumed ber former position but sbe dfd not remove her eyes from bis face and uuconactonsly she put her hand up to her swelling throat.

Wben at length the sitting was over snd sbe left her chair he was standing before the easel. He turned to her and spoke hesitantly. "Will you oomeand look at it?" be

Sbe went and stood where he bade her and looked. He wntcbed her anxiously while sbe did so. For the first moment, iliore was auiftz^ment in her face, then some mysterious emotion be could not comprehend—a dull red orept slowly over brow and cheuk.

Sbe turned npon him. "Monsieur 1" she cried, passionately, *'You mock me! It is a bad picture" He fell back a pace, staring at her and suddenly trembling with the shock. •«A bad picture!" he echoed. "I mock yon—It" "It is my facet" she »aid, pointing to It, "but you have made it what I am not II it *is tbe faoe of good woman—of a woman who might be a saint! Does not that mock me

He turned to It with a troubled, dreamy look. "It is what I have seen in your face," he said, in a soft, absent voice. "It is a truth to me. It is what I have seen." "It is what no other has seen," she said. "I tell yon it mocks me." "It need not mock yon," he answered. "I could not have painted it If I had not

Monsieur, that tbe men who have paint* ed me before would know it?" She gave me another glance snd a shrill laugh burst from her, but the next iustant it broke off and ended In another sound. She fell upon her knees by the empty chair, ber open bands flung outward, her sobs strangling ber.

He stood quite near ber, looking down. "I have not thought of anything but my work," he said. "Wbyshould I?"

Tbe following Sunday night tbe artist Masson met in going down stairs a closely veiled figure coming up. He knew it and spoke. "What, Natalia?" he said. "You? One might fancy you bad been to ohurcb." "I have been," she returned in a cold voice,—"to tbA churob of the Americano in tbe Bue de Berri."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Has it done you good be asked. "No," sbe auswered, and walked past him, leaving him to look after her and think the matter over.

Sbe went to her own apartment and locked herself in. Having done so, sbe lighted every candle and lamp—flooding the place with a garish mockery of brightness. Sbe sang as sbe did it—a gay, shiill air from some opera bouffe. Sbe tore off ber dark veil and wrappings. Her eyes and cheeks flamed as if touohed by some unholy tire. She moved with feverish rapidity here and there—dragging a rich dress from a trunk, and jewels and laces from their places of safe keeping, and began to attire herself in them. The simple black robe she bad worn to the chapel lay on tbe floor. As he moved to and fro she set her feet on it again and again, and ae she felt it beneath her tread a harsh smile touched ber lips. "I shall not wear you again," she stopped her song once to say.

In half an hour she bad made ber toilette. She stood before her glass, a blaze if color and jewels. For a moment she sang no more. From one of the roomi below there floated up to ber sounds of riotous merriment. "This is myself," sii'e said "Mis is no other."

She opened her door and ran down tbe staircase swiftly and lightly. The founder of the feast whose sounds she had heard was a foolish young fellow who adored her madly. He was rich, and wicked, and simple. Because he had heard of her return he had taken an apartment in the bouse. Sbe heard his voice above the voices of tbe rest.

In a moment she had flung open the door of the salon and stood upon the threshold.

At sight of ber there arose a rapturous shout of delight. "Natalie! Natalie! Welcome!"

But instantaneously it died away. One second she stood there, brilliant, smiling, defiant. Tbe next, they saw that a mysterious change had seized upon her. She had become deathly white, and was waviDg them from her wjth a wild gesture. "I am not coming!" she cried, breathlesslj*. "No! No! No!"

And the next instant they could only gaze at each others' terror-stricken faces, at the place she had left vacant—for sbe was goce.

She went np the stairs blindly and uncertainly. When she reached the turn of the fourth floor where the staircase was bare and unligbted, she staggered and sank against the balustrades, her face upturned. "I cannot go back," she whispered to the darkness and silence above. "Do you hear? I cannot! And it is you—you who restrain me!"

But there were no traces of her passion in her face when she went to tbe little studio the next day as usual. When the artist opened the door for her, it struck him that she was calm even to coldness.

Instead of sitting down, she went to the easel and stood before it. "Monsieur," she said, "I have discovered where your mistake lies. You have tried to paint what you fancied must once have existed, though it exists no longer, That is your mistake. It has never existed at all. I remember no youth, no childhood. Life'began for me as it will end. It was my fate that it should. I was born in the lowest quarter of Paris. I knew only poverty, brutality, aud crime. My beauty simply raised me beyond their power. Where should I gain what you have insisted on bestowing upon me?"

He simply stood still and looked at her. "God knows!" he answered at length. "I do not." "God she returned, with her bitter little laugh. "Yes—God

Then she went to her place, and said no more. But the next Sunday she was at the American chapel again, and the next, and the next. She could scarcely have told why herself. Sbe did not believe the doctrines she heard preached, and sbe did not expect to be converted to belief in them. Often, as the service proceeded, a faint smile of derision curved her lips but from her seat in tbe obsenre oorner she had chosen she could see a thin, dark face and a stooping figure. and could lean back against tbe wdl with a sense of repose. "It is quiet here," was her thought. "One can be quiet, and that is much." "What is tbe matter with her?" the men who knew ber began to ask one another. But it was not easy for them to discover how tbe subtle chang* they saw bad been wrought. They were used to her caprices and to occasions! fits of sullenness, but they bad never seen her in just such a mood as she was now. She would bear no jests from them, she would'not join in their gayeties. Sometimes for days together she shut herself up ia her room and they did not see her at all.

The picture progressed but slowly. Sometimes the artivt's hand so trembled with weakness that he could not proceed with bis work. More than onoe Natalie saw the brush suddenly fall from his nerveless fingers. He was very weak in these days, and the spot of hectic red glowed brightly on bis cheek. "I am a poor fellow at best," he would say to her, "andnow 1 am at my worst. I am afraid I shall be obliged to rest sooner than I faucied. I wish first I could have finished my work. I must not leave it unfinished."

One morning, wben he had been obliged to give up painting, through a sudden fit of prostration, on following her to the door, he took her hand and held it a moment. "I was awake all last night," be said. "Yesterday I saw a poor fellow who had fallen 111 on tbe street, carried into tbe Hotel Dieu, and the memory clung to me. I begao to imagine bow it would be if such a thing happened to me—what I should say wben tbey asked for my friends—how there would be none to eeod for. And at last, suddenly I thought of you. I said to myself, «I would send for her, and I think abe would oome." "Y*», Monsieur," she answered. "Yon might depend upon my coming." "I am used to being alone," be went on "but it seemed to me as I lay in tbe dark thinking it over, that to die alone

felt it. It is yourself—yourself." would be a different matter. One would "Myself?" «he said. "Do ycu think, wanl some fam.l ar face to look at—" it* i°-

"Monsieur!" sbe burst forth. "You spesk as If Death were always near you!" "Do I?" he said. And he was silent for a tew seconds and looked down at her hand as be held it. Then he drop-

Eed

it gently with a little sigh. "Gooays," he said, and so tbey parted. In tbe afternoon sbe sat to Masaon. "How much longer," be said to ber in tbe course of tbe sitting—"how much longer does be mean to live—this American? He has lasted astonishingly. They are wonderful fellows, these weaklings who burn themselves out. One might fancy that tbe flame which finally destroys them, also kept tbem alive." "Do you then think that be is so very ill?" she asked iu a low voice. "He will go out," he answered, "like a candle. Shall I tell you a secret?"

She msde a gesture of assent. "He starvebl The coneiergt who has watched him says he does not buy food enough to keep body and soul together. But how is one to offer him anything? It is easy to see that be would not take it."

There was a moment of silence, in which he went on painting. "Tbe trouble is," he said at last, "that a man would not know bow to approach him. It is only women wbo can do these things."

Until the sitting was over neither the one nor tbe other spoke again. Wben it was over and Natalie was on tbe point of learing tbe room, Masson looked at ber critically. "You are pale," he remarked. "You are like a ghost." "Is it not becoming?" she asked.

Yes -''i "Then why complain?" I*******#* She went to her own room and spent half an hour in collecting every valuable sbe owned. They were not manj she had always been recklessly improvident. Sbe put together in a package her lew jewels, and even the laces she considered worth the most. Then she went out, and, taking a fiacre at tbe nearest corner, drove away.

Sbe wa» absent two hours, and when she returned she stopped at the entrance intending to ask the concierge a question. But the man himself spoke first. He was evidently greatiy disturbed and not a little alarmed. "Mademoiselle," he began, "the young man on the sixth floor "Wbat of him?" she demanded. "He desires to &ee you. He went out in spite of my warnings. Figure to yourself on such a day, in such a state of health. He returned almost immediately, wearing tbe look of Death itself. He sank upon the first step of the staircase. When I rushed to his assistance he held to bis lips a handkerchief stained with blood! We were compelled to carry him upstairs."

Sbe stood a moment, feeling ber lips and throat suddenly become dry aud parched. "Aud ho asked—for me?" sbe said at last. "When he spoke, Mademoiselle—yes. We do not know why. He said, ill a very faint voice, 'She said she would com?.'

S je went up the staircase slowly and mechanically, as one who moves in a dream. And yet wben she reached the door of the studio she was obliged to wait for a lew seconds before opening it. When she did open it she saw the attic seemed even more cold and bare than usual that there was no fire that tbe American lay upon the bed, his eyes closed, and the hectic spots had faded from hi cheeks. But when sbe ap-

Eis

roacbed and stood near him, be opened eyes a ad looked at her with a faint smile. "If—I play you—the poor trick of dying," he sii'd, "you will remember— that the picture—if you care for it—is yours."

After a while the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived. Perhaps he had been in no great hurry when be beard that his services were required by an artist who lay in a garret in tbe Latin Quarter.

His visit was a short one. Ho asked a few questions, wrote a prescription, and departed. He looked at Natalie oftener than at tbe sick man. She followed him out to tbe landing, aud then he regarded her with greater interest than before. ^Vc "He is very ill she said. "Yes," be answered. "He will die, of course, sooner or later." "You speak calmly, Monsieur," said she. "Such cases are an old story," he replied. "And—you are not his wife?" "No." "I thought not? ^Nevertheless, perhaps you will remain with him until tbe "As Monsieur says," she returned, "I will remain with him 'until

When the sick man awoke from the sleep into which be had fallen, a fire burned in the stove and a woman's figure was seated before it. "You are here yet?" he murmured falteringly. Sha rose and moved toward him. "I am not going away,' she answered calmly, "if yon will permit me to remain."

His eyes shone with pathetic brightness, and be put out bis band. "You are very kind—to a poor—weak fellow," be whispered. "After all—it is a desolate thing—to lie awake through the night—in a place like this."

When the doctor returned the next morning, he appeared even a shade disconcerted. He had thought it quite likely that, upon his second visit, be might find a scant white sheet drawn over the narrow bed, and that it would, not be necessary for him to remain or call sgaitt but it appeared that bis patient might require his attention yet a few days longer. "You have not left him at all," be said to Natalie. "It is easy to see yon did not sleep last night."

It was true that she bad not slept. Through tbe nigbt she Iiad sat in the dim glow of the fire, scarcely stirring unless some slight sound of movement from the bed attracted hor atteutiou. During tbe first part of the night her charge had seemed to sleep but as the hours wore on there bad ueen no more rest for bim, and ibep she hail known that he lay with his eyes upon ber sbe had felt their gaze even before «be had turned to meet it. Just before the dawn be^.became restless, and called ber to his side. «arf't owe yem a heavy deb£,tf he feaid drearily. "And I shall leave ft unpaid. I wish—I wish It was finished." "It?" she said. "The picture," he answered, "the—picture."

Usually he was too weak for speech bat occasionally a fit of restlessness seizness upon him, and then it seemed as If be was haunted continually by tbe memory of hia unfinished work. "It only needed a few toucher," be said once. "One day of strength would complete it—if scch a day would but rome to me. I know tbe look so well now—I see It on your faee so often."

And then belay watching beT, his

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following her yearningly, as sbe moved to aud fro. In tbe »U*!ios below, tbe artists waited, in tain forfUieiiuaodel. They neither saw nor b«ard anything of her, anil tbey

knew her moods too well to be officiously inquisitive. So she was left alone to tbe task she bad chosen, and waa faithful to it to tbe end.

It was not so very long it lasted, though to ber it seemed a lifetime. A few weeks the doctor made bia visits, and at last one alternoon, in going away, he beckoned her out of the room.

Ho spoke in an undertone. "To night you may watch closely," he said "perhaps toward morning—but it will be very quiet."

It was very quiet. Tbe day had been bitter cold, and as it drew to a close it became colder still, and a fierce wind rose and whistled about tbe old bouse, shaking the ill fitting windows and doors. But the sick man did not seem to bear it. Toward midnight be fell into a deep and quiet sleep.

Belore the fire Natalie sat waiting. Now and then a little shudder passed over ber as if she could not resist the cold. Sbe bad smiled to herself aa sbe bad heaped the coal upon it, seeing that there was so little left. "it will last nntil morning," she said, "aud that will be long enough." All through tbe nights during which sbe had watched sbe never felt the room so still as it seemed now between tbe gusts and soughing of the wind. "Something is in the air which has not been in it before," she said.

About one o'clock she rose and replenished tbe fire, potting the last fragment of coal upon it and then sat down to watch it again.

Its slow kindling and glowing into life fascinated her. It was not long before she could scarcely remove ber eyes from it. Sbe was trying to calculate— with a weird fancy in her mind—bow long it would last, and whether it would die out slowly or suddenly.

As sbe cowered over it, if one of tbe men wbo admired her bad eutt red be might well scarcely have known her. She was hollow eyed, haggard and pallid—lor the time even ber great beauty was gone.

As be had left her that day, the doctor bad said to himself that after all these wonderful faces last but a very short time.

Tbe fire caught at tbe coal, lighted fitful blazes among it, and crept over it in a dull red, which brightened into hot scarlet.

And the sick man lay sleeping, breathing faintly but lightly. "It will last until dawn," she said,— "until dawn, and no longer."

When the first cinder dropped with a a metallic sound, sbe started violently and laid ber band upon ber breast, but alter that she scarcely stirred.

The fitful blazes died down, the hot scarlet deepened to red again, tho red grew dull, a gray film of ashes showed itself upon it, and then came the first gray of dawn, and she sat with beating heart saying to herself:

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"It will go out soon—suddenly." Aud the dyiug man was awake, speaking to her. '.•Come here," he said in a low voipb. "Come here."

She went to him and stood clo9e By the bedside. The moment of her supreme anguish had come. But be showed no signs of pain or dread, onfy there was a little moisture upon his forehead aud about his mouth.

His eyes shone large aud bright in the showy pallor of his face, and whon ho fixed tbem upon her sbe knew ^g^ould not move them away. "I am glad—that it is—finished," he said. "It did not tire me to work—as I thought it would. I am glad—that it is finished."

She fell upon her knees. ...« "That it is finished?" she sai His smile grew brighter. "The picture," he whispered—"the picture."

And then wbat she had waited for came. There was a moment of silence the wind outside hushed itself, his lips parted, but no sound came from them, not even a fluttering breath his eyes were still fixed upon her face, open, bright, smiling. "I may speak now," sbe cried. "I mav speak now—since you cannot bear. I lo've you! I love you!"

But there came to her ears only one sound—the little grating shudder of the fire as it fell together and waa dead.

The next morning when tbey heard that "the American" had at last fulfilled their prophesies, the localaires showed a spasmodic warmth of interest. They offered their services promptly, and said to each other that be must have been a good fellow, after all—that it was a pity they had not known him better. They even protested that he dhonld not be made an object of charity—that among themselves they would ao all that was necessary. But it appeared that their help was not needed—that there was in thfe Dackground a friend Wbo had done ill, but' whom nobody knew.

Hearing this they expressed tbeir sympathy by going up by twos and threes to the little g^tret where thefe was no4v only icy oolflnesb and silence.

Not a few among tbem were so far touched by the pathos tbey found in tbis as to shed a tear or so—most of them were volatile jonng Frenchmen who counted their sensibilities among tbeir luxuries.

Toward evening there came two older than tbe rest, who had not been long iu tbe house.

When they entered a woman stood at the bed's head—a woman in black drapery, with a pale aud haggard face which they saw only for a moment.

As tbey approached she moved away and going to the window stood there with her back toward them gazing out at the drifted snow upon the roof. The men stood uncovered, looking down. "It is tbe face of an Immortal," said the elder of the two. "It is such men wbo die young."

And then they saw tbe easel in tbe shadow of the corner and went and turned it from the wall. When they saw the picture restiiig upon it, there wai a#long silence. It wiia^ broken at last by the older man. "It is some woman be has known and loved," be said. "He has painted hejr soul—and bis own."

Tbe figure near them stirred—the woman's hand crept up to tbe window's side and cluutf to the wocden frame.

But she did not turn, and ww standing so when tho strangers moved away, opened the door and passed, with beads still uncovored, «down tbe dark, rickety stairs.

A fiercer cold had never frozen Paris thsf held it ice and snow bound through tbis day and the next. When the next came to its close all was over and tbe studios were quiet again—perhaps a little quieter for a few boure than was tbeir wont.

Through thia second day Natalie lived —slowly through the first part of tbe

morning in which people went heavily op ana down the stairs through tbe later hours when she heard them whispering among themselves upon the landings through the hour when the footstep* that came down were heavier still, and .slower and impeded with some burden borne with care through the moment when they rested with tbis burden upon w»e landing outside her

IConUnucd on Seventh ra'jc

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