ered.

For a moment he stood on the threshold without speaking; but there was a
radiance in his face, a triumphant dignity in his whole carriage, which
struck Olive and his sister with surprise.

"Brother--dear Michael, you are pleased with something; you have had
good news."

He passed Meliora by, and walked up to Miss Rothesay.

"My pupil, rejoice with me; I have found at length appreciation, my
life's aim has won success--I have sold my 'Alcestis.'"

Miss Vanbrugh rushed towards her brother. Olive Rothesay, full of
delight, would have clasped her master's hand, but there was something
in his look that repelled them both. His was the triumph of a man who
exulted only in and for his Art, neither asking nor heeding any human
sympathies. Such a look might have been on the face of the great
Florentine, when he beheld the multitude gaze half in rapture, half
in awe, on his work in the Sistine Chapel; then, folding his coarse
garments round him, walked through the streets of Rome to his hermit
dwelling, and sat himself down under the shadow of his desolate renown.

Michael Vanbrugh continued,

"Yes, I have sold my grand picture; the dream--the joy of a lifetime.
Sold it, too, to a man who is worthy to possess it. I shall see it in
Lord Arundale's noble gallery; I shall know that it, at least, will
remain where, after my death, it will keep from oblivion the name of
Michael Vanbrugh. Glorious indeed is this my triumph--yet less mine,
than the triumph of high Art. Do you not rejoice, my pupil!"

"I do, indeed, my dear and noble master."

"And, brother, brother--you will be very rich. The price you asked for
the 'Alcestis' was a thousand pounds," said Meliora.

He smiled bitterly.

"You women always think of money."

"But for your sake only, dear Michael," cried his sister; and her
tearful eyes spoke the truth. Poor little soul! she could but go as far
as her gifts went, and they extended no farther than to the thought of
what comforts would this sum procure for Michael--a richer velvet gown
and cap, like one of the old Italian painters--perhaps a journey to
refresh his wearied eyes among lovely scenes of nature. She explained
this, looking, not angry but just a little hurt.

"A journey! yes, I will take a journey--one which I have longed for
these thirty years--I will go to Rome! Once again I will lie on the
floor of the Sistine, and look up worshipingly to Michael the angel."
(He always called him so.)

"An