These were happy days for Arthur Golding, destined, indeed, to be the happiest of his life. Whilst he was hard at work all day with crayon or brush, studying theoretical works till far into the night, or rising with the sun to convert the theory into practice — whilst his thoughts between sleep and sleep, and all the happy visions which circled around his mind during the hours of repose, had their origin in but one idea, that the result of all this delightful labour would before long declare itself to the world in the shape of fame and fortune — he little knew that this labour must be its own reward, or look for none at all; that the happiness he yearned for was now absolutely existent, that the future held for him no single day that would not appear gloomy by the side of these glowing hours.
Similarly Helen Norman was progressing day by day in the struggle upwards and onwards, but in her case there was more consciousness of effort, and less of advance. Though she seemed to have chosen between two paths, resigning the constant care of her own intellect in favour of weary, and often seemingly ungrateful, labour in the cause of others, there was in reality no one of her thousand acts of sweetness, charity, and perseverance but reacted with tenfold effect upon her own nature, rendering her day by day more patient and enduring, as well as bolder, in the campaign against the mistakes and the vices of society upon which she had entered. For her, too, in all likelihood, this was the happiest period of her life, though she was as little conscious of the fact as Arthur. In these days, when the energy of young enthusiasm wrought up her strength to the performance of any severe or disgusting toil, when as yet she could see nothing but the bright results of her efforts, and firmly believed that every new day would add to this brightness, she did indeed experience true happiness. When Mr. Heatherley met her from time to time in the course of her daily visits, and saw her lovely features aglow with the fire of boundless benevolence, and that active virtue, which is so very different a thing from the mere passive virtue upon which her sex, for the most part, prides itself, he could not but marvel in his mind that any impulse other than that of religion could give the spur to such wonderful exertions.
On the other hand, the more Helen saw of the clergyman the more she respected him. If he marvelled at the inspiration which Helen derived from her natural religion, the latter, in her turn, could not but admire Mr. Heatherley’s abounding charity. For, with a generous divergence from the letter of his creed, the latter held that the merit of good works was not solely dependent upon the faith of their performer; there was such a thing, he maintained, as unconsciously fulfilling the Gospel; and, far from esteeming error damnable, he looked upon it as deserving the most tender pity and consideration. So from the first, Helen Norman, with her noble and generous freethinking, had been to Mr. Heatherley an object of wonder at times almost of reverence. Was it not a truth that the ways of God are not the ways of men, and could he for a moment believe that the eternal law of justice would permit the coexistence in one bosom of such heavenly purity of intention with heresy in doctrine nothing less than blasphemous? Surely this was but one phase in the life of a soul struggling towards the truth.
Despite all this, Helen was frequently made to feel those other points, besides mere intellectual attitude, upon which there was no contact between them. Whereas her own nature was richly poetical — esteeming poetry the perfection of the noble faculty of speech, as the highest outward expression of that law of perpetual striving which alone she worshipped — Mr. Heatherley’s, she soon learnt, was only in a very moderate degree appreciative of anything apart from the hard details of social life. They agreed in believing that, for the present, their scene of duty was the earth, their work amidst the misery with which it abounded; but whilst Helen idealised everything she looked upon, he viewed all things alike in the light of common day; where she saw higher significances, he saw merely facts. Such was indeed the necessary result of their difference in religious views. The man who convinces himself that he has ever at his elbow the key to the mystery of the universe, whose profession it is to make manifest to the world that he has this key, and to apply it for everyone’s behoof, who conceives that the great laws of duty have long ago been written down in black and white for the use of man, and are not capable of discovery otherwise; such a man cannot but regard the world in a more or less prosaic light, compared with the point of view of one who recognises no patent key as in existence, for whom the mystery of life and death begins and ends with a vast doubt, whose every thought is the fruit of, and leads to, boundless conjecture, and who is compelled at length to confess with the poet, that
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Some such thoughts as these had occupied Helen’s mind on her way homeward one afternoon early in August, when in body she was fatigued almost past endurance, though her reflecting powers were no less vivid than ordinary. On her arrival in Portland Place, instead of mounting to her room she repaired forthwith to the library, which she knew was always empty at this hour, after giving orders that a cup of tea should be brought to her there. Throwing off her hat, she allowed herself to sink into the luxury of an easy chair, and was continuing her reflections, when the door opened suddenly and Maud entered, equipped for riding.
“You here!” she exclaimed to Helen. “I was that moment imagining you in some frightful cellar, or else garret, scattering your gold like a beneficent fairy to a whole family of destitute drunkards. But really, Helen, you are as pale as a ghost. You are working yourself to death, depend upon it. If I were an Irishwoman, I would add that you will acknowledge I am right when you actually are dead. I just came in to have a look at my pistols. I think you haven’t seen them yet?”
With that she proceeded to open one of the drawers in the centre-table, of which she took the key from her pocket, and to take from it two small American revolvers, holding one in each hand, and regarding them with the peculiar ironical smile which she had learnt from her father.
“They’re both loaded,” she said, calmly.
“Do you say they are yours, Maud?” asked Helen, in surprise.
“Yes; I bought them in the Strand, last Monday.”
“But whatever for?”
“What for? Why, you know I am on the point of being married.”
“And what is the connection between the two circumstances?” asked Helen.
Maud shrugged her shoulders, once more examined the pistols carefully, replaced them in the drawer, and locked them up.
“One can never foresee what may happen,” she said at length. “Supposing robbers broke into one’s room at night. There are a thousand contingencies rendering the possession of such little defenders very desirable.”
Helen was silent and thoughtful. At this moment a servant brought in her tea.
“Bring me a cup, too, will you, Mary?” said Maud. Then, turning to her friend, “It will strengthen me to endure my ride.”
“Where is your ride to be today?” asked Helen.
“Where, my dear child? Why, in the Row, of course. Where else can a civilised person ride, I should like to know. Waghorn calls for me at four.”
“Do you enjoy your ride in the Row?”
“Enjoy it? My dear Helen, you grow more na?ve every day. Is it meant to be enjoyed, think you? Do you suppose that any soul ever does enjoy it?”
“It is somewhat difficult to account for their persisting in the practice if it brings them no enjoyment,” returned Helen.
“Duty, Helen, duty. Do not suppose that you philanthropists monopolise that article. We go to the Row to show ourselves, and purely from a sense of duty. Society requires it of us. Who would venture to question the dictates of society?”
“But I suppose the dictates of society are sometimes one with those of pleasure?”
“Give me a single instance in which they are,” returned Maud, “and I’ll — allow you to congratulate me on my wedding-day. Which, bye-the-by, I herewith seriously forbid you to do, Helen Norman.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because I esteem you too highly, my dear girl, to allow you to make a hypocrite of yourself out of deference to these same social rules of which we have been speaking.”
There was silence for some time, which Helen was the first to break.
“You could hardly regard the concert last night as disagreeable,” she said. “Mr. Gresham told me that it was admirable.”
“Never trust papa,” returned Maud, “especially when he praises anything or anybody. He does so purely out of deference to your optimistic views; for, you must know, papa is a trifle afraid of you. I assure you the concert was fatiguing to the last degree.”
“Do you ever enjoy anything, Maud?”
“Yes, Helen.”
“What, may I ask?”
“Why, talking with you. It seems to do me good to mingle my insipid ideas with your vigorous, healthy thoughts. It refreshes me to come into contact with your genuine nature, after feeding my littleness upon the affected admiration of fools. You see I can be severe in a downright manner when I choose, Helen, and upon myself, too.”
Helen did not reply, but enjoyed her tea with gravity.
“Do you know, Helen,” pursued the talkative young lady, “I have only seen one person in my life very much like you. Can you guess who it is?”
“I fear not.”
“You will be surprised. I mean Mr. Golding.”
Helen looked up with a surprised smile.
“What are the points of resemblance?” she asked.
“Many. You are both grave habitually, and enthusiastic upon occasion You are both furious advocates of what you will permit me to call the canaille, their rights and wrongs. You have both a manner of smiling quite peculiar, and which, to atone for the other expression, I may perhaps be permitted to call angelic. Also you are both, in conclusion, extraordinarily good-looking.”
“How can you know all this of Mr. Golding?” asked Helen, smiling.
“Oh, I frequently have a little conversation with him in the studio of a morning. I find him rather interesting.”
“Upon what subjects has he waxed enthusiastic to you?”
“Principally upon the merits of an old gentleman with whom, it seems, he has lived for many years, but whose name is a trifle uncouth, and I forget it. Oh, I know! Tollady — Mr. Tollady. To hear Mr. Golding speak of him, he must be an angel, before whom even you, Helen, must veil your wings. He impoverishes himself by giving to the poor, and has been known to walk home shoeless at night that a beggar’s feet might be shod.”
Helen listened with an expression of the most lively interest upon her features, but made no remark.
“But I shall cease my connection with Mr. Golding,” pursued Maud.
“Why?”
“His enthusiasm is contagious. If I talked to him for an hour every day during a week he would scatter my calm philosophy to the winds.”
Helen made no reply.
“It is very unfortunate,” said Maud, “that his position is so ambiguous.”
“In what sense ambiguous?” asked Helen.
“Why, you know, he is not, to begin with, what the world calls a gentleman.”
“Indeed! Has he been rude to you?”
“Far from it.”
“What has he done, then, to forfeit the title of a gentleman?”
“He never owned it, Helen. He must have been as poor as a church mouse all his life, and Heaven forbid that he should disclose how he got his living always.”
“Are you speaking seriously, Maud?”
“Quite seriously, Helen, as the mouthpiece of the world, which you know is the character I love to adopt.”
“But as the mouthpiece of your own thoughts?”
“Why, what is your opinion?”
“I never saw him act, or heard him speak otherwise than as a gentleman, on the two occasions I had for speaking to him.”
“Well, when I speak of his ambiguous position, I mean to say one is not quite sure whether one ought to talk to him as an equal or not.”
“That I consider an unworthy doubt, Maud.”
“You have no scruples in the matter?”
“I confess that I have not. If I wish to do so, I shall speak with as much freedom to Mr. Golding as to Mr. Gresham.”
“You consider him an equal?”
“In many respects, my superior,” replied Helen, unconsciously straightening herself, as was her habit when desirous of speaking with special force. “As an artist he has shown that he possesses genius, and that is a property I bow to wherever I meet it.”
“The genius Mr. Golding owns is, unfortunately, not always so useful as its namesakes of the ‘Arabian Nights.’ Genius is highly agreeable company in the world’s estimation as long as it is able to keep a carriage; but genius in rags is the most objectionable of mendicants.”
“And can you rank yourself, Maud, on the side of a world with principles such as these?”
“Don’t say can; the proper word is must. Depend upon it, the world is too strong for an individual will to combat. It will conquer, sooner or later. The difference between you and me, Helen, is, that whilst you are determined to fight out the struggle to the bitter end, I, rather more sensible, I flatter myself, calculate the chances to begin with, and give in at once.”
“Well,” said Helen, with a sigh, “if I am fated to be beaten, I still think it will be a consolation to me to remember that I struggled. But why do you always practise this insincerity with me, Maud? I know quite well you think far other than you speak.”
“You know that?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Well, well. Then you know more of me, Helen, than I do of myself. But here is John. You are very late, sir.”
These words were addressed to Mr. John Waghorn, who just then entered the library, looking, if possible, even more respectable in his riding clothes than he had done in evening dress.
There was, however, today, a certain sallowness in his cheeks, and a slight heaviness about the eyes, which, in any less respectable man, would have awakened a strong suspicion that he had been “making a night of it” the evening before, and had but very lately risen from bed. In Mr. John Waghorn’s case this supposition was, of course, inadmissible. Doubtless the “seedy” look could be attributed to undue strain in business matters.
“May not we have the pleasure of Miss Norman’s company?” he asked, in an accent of much politeness.
“Thank you,” returned Helen, with a not altogether successful effort to conceal the dislike she had of the speaker; “I never ride.”
“Pity, that,” remarked Mr. Waghorn. “The Row is a loser by your absence.”
“I thought you had already learnt that Miss Norman does not care for compliments, put in Maud. “Besides, all your esprit in that direction should be reserved for me. Are you ready?”
“I wait your pleasure,” returned Mr. Waghorn, turning to Maud with a smile of remarkable insipidity, very different from the bold look of genuine admiration with which his eyes had rested upon Helen.
They walked together to the front door, where their horses awaited them, and rode away in silence, with a distance of ten feet between them. Strangers viewing them as they passed took them for man and wife.
Helen, when left alone, took up her hat with a sigh, and ascended to her room. As she passed the studio she saw the curtain drawn aside from the door, which stood wide open
“Maud!” cried Mr. Gresham’s voice from within.
“It is I, Mr. Gresham,” said Helen, entering the room “Maud has this moment gone for her ride.”
“Ha!” returned the artist, in an abstracted tone. Then added, with an affectation of indifference, “Did you see Waghorn?”
“For a moment.”
“He — he wasn’t quite well, was he?”
“I didn’t hear him say so,” replied Helen; “but I thought he appeared to have a headache.”
Mr. Gresham was standing at his easel, palette and brushes in hand, and between his words he hummed a tune carelessly. Suddenly he faced Helen.
“I suppose I shall have to give you away next?” he said, smiling in his old manner.
“I think there is no present prospect of that,” returned Helen, with a slight laugh.
“What sort of a man will it be, Helen, when the time does come? — anything like Waghorn?”
He added the last words after a scarcely perceptible pause, and in a slightly lower tone.
“I cannot say that I have ever thought on the point,” returned his ward, calmly. “I should not be surprised if I never did.”
“Shouldn’t you? But I should. Do you think your beauty should serve no better purpose than to be cast away in drunkards’ dens and reeking hospital wards? When do you mean to tire of your silly whim, Helen?”
The girl looked with surprise into his face. She had never heard him speak with so much energy, with so little of his habitual irony of tone.
But he seemed to be himself immediately conscious of this, and coloured slightly as he relapsed into indifference.
“Haven’t you had enough of it yet, Helen?”
“It would be a sad thing for me, sir,” she replied, “if I were already weary of the work of my life.”
Mr. Gresham shrugged his shoulders and smiled, continuing to add touches to the picture before him. His ward turned to go, but he recalled her.
“Will you allow me to paint your portrait some day, Helen?” he asked, still keeping his eyes fixed upon the picture.
“To exhibit at the Academy, like Maud’s?” she asked in reply, with a touch of irony.
“Psha!” exclaimed the artist. “To hang up in the drawing-room, or, better still, over the mantel-piece, here in the studio.”
“I fear I could not spare the time to sit,” returned Helen. Changing the subject, she added immediately, “I think you know the gentleman with whom Mr. Golding lives, do you not?”
“Know him?” said the artist, in surprise. “What about him?”
“Maud made some remarks with regard to him today which excited my interest. Do you know whether he is a very charitable man?”
“I think I have heard something to that effect from Golding; but I fancy he is not possessed of too ample means for the bestowal of charity. It must be in a very small way.”
“And therefore the more creditable to him,” said Helen. “You would have no objection to my making myself known to him, with a view to his acquainting me with any particularly deserving case of want which he may not be able to relieve himself?”
“I suppose if I were to refuse my consent you would do so without it?” said the artist, keenly examining Helen from under his heavy eyebrows.
“Certainly not,” replied his ward. “I trust I shall always have a proper respect for your wishes, Mr. Gresham, as I should for those of my father, were he living.”
Her guardian’s face softened wonderfully as she spoke these words. He continued to regard her, as she stood with downcast eyes.
“Helen,” he said, in a lower tone, “you must not take everything I say too much au sérieux. I should not like always to be judged by my words.”
“And yet,” returned the girl, simply, “it is generally by that criterion that we judge and are judged.”
And nodding a pleasant adieu she left the studio, closing the door behind her, whilst Mr. Gresham, with an expression upon his countenance somewhat strange to it, went on with his painting.
Helen had scarcely had time to doff her walking dress and assume that in which she ordinarily sat down to study, when a knock at her door disturbed her, and a servant informed her that she was inquired for by two ladies, who had declined to send their names on the plea that they were perfect strangers.
She descended to the drawing-room in some surprise, and, on entering, saw two ladies, one about her own age, one middle-aged, who rose to meet her. They were both very richly dressed, but rather too showily, and their countenances were wonderfully meaningless.
“Oh!” exclaimed the younger lady, before Helen had time to speak. “Oh! you really must excuse our unceremonious call, you know. But we have heard so very much of you, Miss Norman, that we really couldn’t resist the quite too delightful chance of seeing you, you know. Could we, Mrs. Hopper, now?”
“No, indeed, Miss Norman,” put in Mrs. Hopper. “We are only too glad to find you at home. We really hope that you will excuse our freedom, really.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the voluble young lady. “We have heard so much, so very much of your too beautiful charity, you know. And oh! Miss Norman, what church do you attend?”
“May I ask what your purpose is in asking the question?” said Helen, who had at first been somewhat disconcerted by the enthusiasm of the pair, but soon recovered her calmness, and felt considerably indignant at their intrusion.
“Oh, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the young lady. “We do so want to know, if you would tell us, you know. Of course you are high, Miss Norman?”
“I am afraid I do not quite understand you,” said Helen, doing her best to show her distaste for this conversation.
“Miss Pitcher means, Miss Norman,” explained the elder lady, “that you are, of course, devoted entirely to the High Church service?”
“Really, ladies,” said Helen, distantly, “I fail to see how my religious opinions can interest you. May I request that you will state the object of your visit?”
The elderly lady seemed somewhat abashed by the speaker’s calm dignity of manner, but the younger returned to the attack, not at all discouraged.
“Oh, Miss Norman, we ask, you know, because we are so awfully anxious to get you to attend our Church, St. Abinadab’s, you know. You could be so very useful there, you know, Miss Norman; a person of your too charitable disposition! There is so much work to be done in the Sunday schools, and with regard to the bazaars, and the tea-meetings, and — and so awfully many things, you know. And we have got such a delightful new incumbent, such a quite too dear man, Miss Norman. It is such a pity he is married, and has thirteen children! And his name’s Mr. Whiffle, Miss Norman. Oh, I’m sure you would so like him!”
“Miss Pitcher is quite right,” interposed Mrs. Hopper, the young lady being out of breath. “It would be such a great blessing if we could secure your services for St. Abinadab’s. We have heard so much of your indefatigable charity. And I’m sure you would so like poor Mr. Whiffle.”
Helen started slightly as she heard the name of the new incumbent of St. Abinadab’s. She could scarcely doubt that it was the Mr. Whiffle with whom she was acquainted. She was about to speak when Miss Pitcher cut her short.
“Oh, yes! Poor Mr. Whiffle, Miss Norman. You can’t think how he has been persecuted by that quite too dreadful man, his former bishop! And all because he was so devotedly high, Miss Norman, and altogether refused to become either broad or low! Is it not shocking? But I am so thankful that friends have obtained St. Abinadab’s for him. Oh, what sermons! and oh! what singing, Miss Norman!”
“Mrs. Hopper,” said Helen, as soon as a pause came, turning to the elder lady, “if I rightly understand that is your name — I must really request that you will tell me whether you had any serious object in visiting me. If not, I must tell you that I do not feel justified in wasting more of my time in hearing of matters which do not at all interest me.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman,” said the elder lady, shrinking a little before Helen’s eyes, “yes, we had a very serious object in view. It is this, Miss Norman. Finding that our new incumbent, Mr. Whiffle, suffers severely at times from rheumatism in the right leg — poor man! — we have decided to raise a subscription to purchase him a very handsome leg-rest; and — and, we have really heard so very much of your extreme charity, Miss Norman, that — that we have ventured to call upon you in the hope that you would add your name to the subscription list.”
As she spoke Mrs. Hopper drew out of her pocket a small note-book, which she opened at a page headed, “The Rev. Mr. Whiffle’s leg-rest,” and handed it to Helen together with a pencil.
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the younger lady, “and for something quite handsome, you know. Something worthy of you!”
Indignation burned fiercely in Helen’s breast. Stepping to the bell-cord, she pulled it sharply, whilst she spoke in decided tones.
“I see,” she said, “that we scarcely agree in our opinions as to what a serious object is. That which you are pleased to call such, I can only term, with no desire to offend you, frivolous and impertinent. I wish you good afternoon, ladies, and hope you may before long find a more worthy occupation for your abundant leisure. Kindly let these ladies out, James,” she added, as the footman knocked and entered.
Not even Miss Pitcher’s audacity was proof against this. The two departed with blank countenances, and without uttering a word. As soon as she was alone, Helen gave way to irresistible laughter, and ran up to her room again.
On the following day, Arthur Golding, entering Mr. Tollady’s shop at two different times, met on the door-step two very different people, both of whom, however, excited surprise in him and one a somewhat different emotion also.
The first of these occasions was about noon. As he was returning from making a few purchases of colours, he met, just issuing from the shop, a gentleman whom he immediately recognised as Mr. John Waghorn. At the same moment he recalled to mind how it was that, on meeting Mr. Waghorn in Mr. Gresham’s dining-room, he had been so strongly impressed with the feeling of having seen him before. He now felt sure that it was here he must have seen him, indeed, thought he remembered the very occasion. In the present instance Mr. Waghorn’s eyes fell upon Arthur for a moment, but were immediately removed. He either did not recognise the young man, or did not wish to appear to do so.
On entering the shop, Arthur found it empty, and, on stepping into the parlour at the back, found the old man sitting with his head leaning forward and his face hidden in his hands. He had not heard Arthur’s approach, and raised his head with a start when the latter spoke.
“Are you ill, Mr. Tollady?” asked Arthur, in an anxious voice.
“No, no, Arthur,” replied the printer, in rather tremulous tones, which he strove to make firm. “No; I was only thinking.”
“Of no pleasant subject, I fear,” returned Arthur, sitting by the other’s side, and looking concernedly into his face.
Mr. Tollady seemed to reflect for a moment, but then his face cleared up, and he smiled in the old benevolent way.
“Perhaps I am not quite as well as I might be, Arthur,” he said. “Never mind, we will have a walk into the country on Sunday, if it’s fine. That will set me up.”
“Who was that who just left the shop as I entered?” asked Arthur, not content with this dismissal of the subject.
“Someone I had a little business with, Arthur,” replied the old man, calmly.
Arthur knew the tone in which these words were spoken, and respected Mr. Tollady’s wish to avoid further explanation. But he went up to his work with an uneasy mind.
The second meeting occurred about five o’clock in the evening, when he was returning from an errand in connection with the printing office, for he still insisted on finding time to do much of this work. Just as he had met Mr. Waghorn, he now encountered a tall, veiled lady, whose identity his heart at once revealed to him by a sudden leap. Even had he not discerned her features faintly through the veil, he would have known this lady to be Miss Norman. The form, the bearing, the walk could belong to no other.
She recognised him, bowed, said — “Good-evening, Mr. Golding,” and passed on. It seemed as though she had held a whole conversation with him, so sweet and lingering in his ears was the voice which uttered the commonplace words.
Mr. Tollady was in the shop, and wearing an expression of countenance far other than that he had worn in the morning.
“Why, whatever was Miss Norman doing here?” cried Arthur, as he bounded into the shop.
“She has been here nearly half an hour,” replied Mr. Tollady, smiling.
“And I was away!” exclaimed Arthur, in a tone of disappointment. Then, observing the old man’s clear eye fixed searchingly upon him, he affected to laugh.
“Whatever was her business? Is it rude to ask?” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Tollady. “She has made me the happiest man in London, bless her kind heart! You remember, Arthur, how bitterly I was regretting only this morning that I was unable to help poor Sarah Thomson, whose husband died last week?”
“Yes.”
“Well; even whilst I was brooding over the poor woman’s lot and making myself quite miserable, who should come in but an angel with the very succour that was wanted! Upon my word, I shall believe henceforth in angels, Arthur.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” said the young man, amused at Mr. Tollady’s unusual enthusiasm. “Have you known Miss Norman long?”
“Not till half an hour ago. Then she came and introduced herself, saying that you — silly boy! — had been telling tales about my poor efforts to help a few needy people, and begging to be allowed to contribute from her purse if ever I should know of a worthy person. I at once told her Mrs. Thomson’s story, and — see the result!”
He held up a five-pound note, with almost childish glee.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “And more to follow if it be necessary. And sewing for the poor thing to employ herself with, too! Yes, Arthur, I shall believe henceforth in angels. Her very voice has done me good. If there were but more like hers!”
For a moment an unworthy feeling arose in Arthur’s mind — he felt half ashamed that Helen should have seen the poor place in which he lived. It was only for a moment; the next, he had crushed the base thought, as he would have done a poisonous insect beneath his foot. He felt that, for the future, the shop would seem brighter and more cheerful, glorified as it was by the reminiscence of her presence. What if it were a poor place? Would not Helen think all the better of him that he had conceived the idea of making himself an artist under such discouraging circumstances? It was but the third time he had set eyes upon Miss Norman, and yet he felt it a matter of inexpressible importance that she should think well of him. The idea that she might not think of him at all did not enter his head; his feelings were not sufficiently developed for that. At present the mere thought that she had been beneath this roof invested the whole house with a vague sanctity, as with a perfume. With a day-dream of lovely forms and faces dazzling before his eyes, he mounted the stairs, and once more set eagerly to his work.