assumed his profession as a means of ingratiating himself with heiresses of a saltatory disposition. The girl Bridget had read romances when she had had no expectation of living under the same roof with an Italian count. What if this darkling nobleman should employ the Bravo of Venice to murder his wife? What hope was there of artistic calm in a palace redolent of such possibilities? What hope of that profound and placid sleep, which was wont to restore so surely and so regularly her creative energy, when on any night the death-shriek of the victim-but it was too horrible. She held the Countess tight, and glanced nervously at the walls, of which any one might contain that secret passage known only to successive counts and to a long line of rats. None the less stoutly did the Lady Lappin determine to stand by her friend. The Contessa for her part was full of enthusiasm. She had remained for a time in a silence eloquent of expression; but now she broke out again. must do it well," she said; "I must be the very best housewife that ever was, with slippers always in the fire, cold baths and prayers en famille, and breakfast of sausages and bacon at 9, 8, 7,-at what hour? And he shall read the Journal to me like your adorable Rupert, and I will write in little red

'I

books. I see it all: it is perfect: and you will teach me to cook the beautiful muffins. I will cook the muffin for my husband."

There was a brilliancy and vigour about this slender woman, as she conjured up before her wayward eyes this picture of domestic bliss, which drew from Lady Lappin a soft sigh of admiration. At whatever cost Brigida would aid her beloved friend on this noble path. She drew her again into her arms, and imprinted a solemn kiss upon her forehead.

264

CHAPTER XXIII.

'My salad days

When I was green in judgment, cold in blood.

PHILIP LAMOND blamed himself but little for lingering in Venice. He felt himself so strong, that he dared to make this last concession to his weakness. Had he been placed in the same circumstances a year before, he had perhaps shouted defiance-and fled but now he was calm and prudent; he trusted himself and the stability of his purpose. He did not deceive nor try to deceive himself. He knew that he lingered from day to day because she was there, for joy of the knowledge that one city held them both. Silent and motionless he stood in the dusk by the Palazzo Belrotoli, and laid his hand upon that ancient wall, which had survived a thousand romances. There was comfort in the rough stone, though, as he caressed it, the

eyes which he pressed against the caressing hand were full of tears. He was moved to amazement by his own calm. Could it be he who was putting aside so bravely and quietly all hope of love? Could it be he, who after a few hours was going away like any other careless tourist, regretful for the beauty of Venice? It was he, and yet instead of cursing his fate he was making ready for the journey.

Beyond the intention of speedy departure Philip had been slowly forming the purpose of a lifelong devotion to his art. Nothing could change it now. It was grounded firm on a strong sense of duty; he could justify it with a thousand arguments. He knew now that with time and pains he could make something good. Therefore he held it his duty to grudge no time and to spare no pains. Nor was this statement of his duty a mere phrase to him; it was rather a divine rule of life, which he bailed with no cries of lip-service, to which he clung with all the passionate enthusiasm of his nature. He was strong enough to live his whole life through without love; but he would not grow old before he had put all his strength and patience into the effort to do some good thing for the world. He had been learning fast of late, and knew that to

He could

be a great artist is no easy matter. find no school which satisfied him. It was clear to him that only through many experiments failures and shortcomings could he find and master the methods proper to himself. It was likely that he would try many subjects before he found which were best suited to his powers. Meanwhile he knew that he would put aside all expectation of easy popularity and early gain. And was not this

but one woman in

to put aside love? There was the world whom he could love. If this woman came to him penniless, how could he bear to see her almost in want during his years of study, his long apprenticeship? And on the other hand could he bear that she should take her money from her father? It was intolerable that for his sake she should decline one hair's - breadth from her high idea of right. Not the faintest stain of meanness should mar her image in his mind. She was not for him; and that was all. Luckily she had received no hurt from him. He had seen her in her freedom, growing in strength and beauty. Her love for him was over and gone. That was the one certain fact-the important thing, which he must not lose sight of for a moment. Were it not so, all would be different. Were it not so, he would