My dear Lacroix, I am happy to tell you that the prince has bought your
picture."

"'The Pilgrimage,' do you mean?"

"Yes, yes; you don't seem very delighted about it."

"Well," said Lacroix, "the fact is that I shall miss it. It has been part
of my life for the last four years. Oh! yes, I shall miss it."

"But, my dear Lacroix, do be practical. Just think of the price you will
get. Think, too, of the _eclat_. What a queer unworldly sort of creature
you are. Any other man would be fairly beside himself with joy at such
success as yours."

"Yes," replied Lacroix, wearily; "of course I know it is a great thing
for me. I appreciate it, indeed I do."

"You do not show your appreciation very enthusiastically," said the
president, as he moved off to speak to some other guests who were just
coming into the gallery.

Next day, early in the afternoon, Lacroix started for his long walk up
Highgate Hill, with M. Bois-le-Duc's letter safely in his pocket this
time. He was a good walker and used to outdoor exercise, and enjoyed the
prospect of the long tramp this bright summer day.

He did not hurry himself, for there was plenty of time before five
o'clock, and he stopped every few moments to examine some wayside plant,
and to listen with the ardor of a true lover of nature to the merry
voices of the thrush and blackbird singing a gladsome carol.

And he was often tempted by the fascinating beauty of the quiet
landscape, as he left the grimy smoke of London far behind him and
ascended into the pure fresh country, to take out his sketch-book and dot
down dainty little glimpses, thus laying up a store for future work.

But at length he reached number 17, The Grove, and the door was opened by
the trim little maid-servant, who replied, in answer to his inquiry--

"Yes, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia is at home. Please walk up this way."

CHAPTER XII.

"I know, dear heart! that in our lot
May mingle tears and sorrow;
But love's rich rainbow's built from tears
To-day, with smiles to [**-?]morrow.
The sunshine from our sky may die,
The greenness from life's tree,
But ever 'mid the warring storm
Thy nest shall shelter'd be.
The world may never know, dear heart!
What I have found in thee;
But, though naught to the world, dear heart!
Thou'rt all the world to me."

Gerald Massey.

Mademoiselle Laurentia was sitting at her five o'clock tea-table, a
dainty little wicke