n his hand.

"Do you want to be laid up with bronchitis or congestion of the lungs?"
he asked, rather sadly, as he showed her the thin, worn soles; "do you
think that will make things easier for me, Livy?" The next day he had
taken her himself to the bootmaker's and had had her fitted with a
serviceable stout pair.

Somehow in spite of her pleasure in the boots and Marcus's
thoughtfulness she had felt rather like a scolded child.

Her unusual pessimism had a moment's distraction, for as she passed the
print-shop, at the corner of Harbut Street, she saw her mysterious old
gentleman standing still on the pavement fixedly regarding a small
oil-painting.

Olivia had a good view of the lean, cadaverous face and peaked white
beard; the heavy grey eyebrows seemed to beetle over the dark sunken
eyes.

"After all he looks more like a Spaniard than a Russian," she thought,
and again her theory of the Roman Catholic priest came into her mind.
"If I could only see him without his hat, I should know if he had a
tonsure," and then with youthful curiosity she looked to see what
picture had interested him.

It was a small painting of the Prodigal Son, but was evidently by no
amateur, the face of both father and son were admirably portrayed. The
strong Syrian faces were mellowed by the ruddy gleams of sunset. A
tame kid was gambolling behind them, and two women were grinding corn,
with the millstone between them. On the flat white roof of the house,
another woman had just laid aside her distaff in a hurry. The father's
arms with their gold bracelets were clasping the gaunt, sharp shoulders
of the starving youth.

Olivia knew the picture well. Marcus had been very much struck with
it, it was good work, he said; the Syrian faces were perfect types, and
he had made Olivia notice the strong resemblance between father and son.

"That is the mother, I suppose?" had been her comment; "she has just
caught sight of them, there is a puzzled look in her eyes as she lays
aside her distaff, as though she is not quite sure that that
wild-looking figure in sheep-skin is her own long-lost son."

"It must be a grand thing to be an artist," was Marcus's reply to this.
"Goddard, I do not know the name; the picture is cheap, too, only 25
pounds, but I would wager any money that it was painted in Syria."

Olivia stole a second glance at the old man, but he never moved; then
she shivered, and walked faster. It was bitterly cold, a miserabl