ay an illustration, entitled
"Sanctuary," and stated to be after a painting by Norbert Franks.

"Isn't it good? Doesn't it come out well?--deuce take you, why don't
you speak?"

"Not bad--for a photogravure," said Warburton, who had the air of a
grave elder in the presence of this ebullient youth.

"Be hanged! We know all about that. The thing is that it's _there_.
Don't you feel any surprise? Haven't you got anything to say? Don't you
see what this means, you old ragamuffin?"

"Shouldn't wonder if it meant coin of the realm--for your shrewd
dealer."

"For me too, my boy, for me too! Not out of this thing, of course. But
I've arrived, I'm _lance_, the way is clear! Why, you don't seem to
know what it means getting into _The Art World_."

"I seem to remember," said Warburton, smiling, "that a month or two
ago, you hadn't language contemptuous enough for this magazine and all
connected with it."

"Don't be an ass!" shrilled the other, who was all this time circling
about the little room with much gesticulation. "Of course one talks
like that when one hasn't enough to eat and can't sell a picture. I
don't pretend to have altered my opinion about photogravures, and all
that. But come now, the thing itself? Be honest, Warburton. Is it bad,
now? Can you look at that picture, and say that it's worthless?"

"I never said anything of the kind."

"No, no! You're too deucedly good-natured. But I always detected what
you were thinking, and I saw it didn't surprise you at all when the
Academy muffs refused it."

"There you're wrong," cried Warburton. "I was really surprised."

"Confound your impudence! Well, you may think what you like. I maintain
that the thing isn't half bad. It grows upon me. I see its merits more
and more."

Franks was holding up the picture, eyeing it intently. "Sanctuary"
represented the interior of an old village church. On the ground
against a pillar, crouched a young and beautiful woman, her dress and
general aspect indicating the last degree of vagrant wretchedness; worn
out, she had fallen asleep in a most graceful attitude, and the rays of
a winter sunset smote upon her pallid countenance. Before her stood the
village clergyman, who had evidently just entered, and found her here;
his white head was bent in the wonted attitude of clerical benevolence;
in his face blended a gentle wonder and a compassionate tenderness.

"If that had been hung at Burlington House, Warburton, it would have
b