at would
accomplish the ruin of his genius. "If"--he always added--"if he is worth
saving; which remains to be seen." Always, at the Taine home, they met
James Rutlidge. Frequently the celebrated critic dropped in at the cottage
in the orange grove.

Under the skillful management of Rutlidge,--at the request of Mrs.
Taine,--the newspapers were already busy with the name and work of Aaron
King. True, the critic had never seen the artist's work; but,
never-the-less, the papers and magazines throughout the country often
mentioned the high order of the painter's genius. There were little
stories of his study and success abroad; tactful references to his
aristocratic family; entertaining accounts of his romantic life with the
famous novelist in the orange groves of Fairlands, and of how, in his
California studio among the roses, the distinguished painter was at work
upon a portrait of the well-known social leader, Mrs. Taine--this being
the first portrait ever painted of that famous beauty. That the picture
would create a sensation at the exhibition, was the unanimous verdict of
all who had been permitted to see the marvelous creation by this rare
genius whose work was so little known in this country.

Said Conrad Lagrange--"It is all so easy."

Once or twice, the artist or his friend had seen the woman of the
disfigured face; and the novelist still tried in vain to fix her in his
memory. Every day, they heard, in the depths of the neighboring orange
grove, the music of that unseen violin. They spoke, often, in playful
mood, of the spirit that haunted the place; but they made no effort to
solve the mystery of the carefully tended rose garden. They knew that
whoever cared for the roses worked there only in the early morning hours;
and they carefully avoided going into the yard back of the house until
after breakfast. They felt that an investigation might rob them of the
peculiar humor of their fancy--a fancy that was to them, both, such a
pleasure; and gave to their home amid the orange-trees and roses such an
added charm.

But the other member of the trio of friends was not so reticent. Czar had
formed an--to his most proper dogship--unusual habit. Frequently, when the
three were sitting on the porch in the evening, he would rise suddenly
from his place beside his master's chair, and walking sedately to the side
of the porch facing that neighboring gable and chimney, would stand
listening attentively; then, without so mu