ound or
drapery--less as though he thought this needed, than as if loth to give
the last, the very last, touch to a work so precious. He talked all the
while, seemingly to hide the emotion which he would not show.

"Lord Arundale is an honour to his rank, a _noble man_ indeed. One does
not often meet such, Miss Rothesay. It was a pleasure to receive him in
my studio. It did me good to talk with him, and with his friend."

Here Olive looked at Meliora and smiled. "Was his friend, then, as
agreeable as himself?"

"Not so brilliant in conversation, but far the higher nature of the two,
or I have read the human countenance in vain. He said frankly, that he
was no artist, and no connoisseur, like Lord Arundale; but I saw from
his eye, that, if he did not understand, he felt my picture."

"How so?" said Olive, with growing interest.

"He looked at Alcestis,--the 'Alcestis' I have painted,--sitting on her
golden throne, waiting for death to call her from her kingdom and her
lord; waiting solemnly, yet without fear. 'See,' said Lord Arundale to
his friend, 'how love makes this feeble woman stronger than a hero! See
how fearlessly a noble wife can die!'--'A wife who loves her husband,'
was the answer, given so bitterly, that I turned to look at him. Oh,
that I could have painted his head at that instant! It would have made a
Heraclitus--a Timon!"

"And do you know his name? Will he come here again?"

"No: for he was leaving London to-day. I wish it had not been so, for I
would have asked him to sit to me. That grand, iron, rigid head of his,
with the close curling hair, would be a treasure indeed!"

"But who is he, brother?" inquired Meliora.

"A man of science; well known in the world, too, Lord Arundale said.
He told me his name, but I forgot it. However, you may find a card
somewhere about."

Meliora ran to the mantelpiece, and brought one to her brother. "Is this
it?" He nodded. She ran for the light, and read aloud--

"_The Reverend Harold Gwynne_."

CHAPTER XXIV.

The subject of Harold Gwynne served Olive-and her mother for a full
half-hour's conversation during that idle twilight season which they
always devoted to pleasant talk. It was a curious coincidence which thus
revived in their memories a name now almost forgotten. For, the debt
once paid, Mr. Gwynne and all things connected with him had passed into
complete oblivion, save that Olive carefully kept his letters.

These she had the curiosity t