ll nurse him so long as I have strength left to creep from
one room to another."

During Christmas week he grew alarmingly worse, and Dr. Le Roy counted the
waning life by hours; but on New Year's eve he declared himself almost
well, and insisted on being carried to the studio. The whim was humoured,
and wrapped in his silken _robe de chambre_, he was seated in his large
cushioned chair, smiling to find himself once more in the midst of his
treasures. Turning back the velvet cuff from his attenuated wrist, he
lifted his flushed face toward the nurse, and said eagerly: "Uncover my
easel; make William draw it close to me; I have been idle long enough. Give
me my palette; I want to retouch the forehead of my hero. It needs a high
light."

"You are not strong enough to work. Wait till to-morrow."

"To-morrow! to-morrow! You have told me that fifty times. Wheel up the
easel, I say. The spell is upon me, and work I will."

It was the "ruling passion strong in death," and Electra acquiesced,
arranging the colours on the palette as he directed, and selecting the
brushes he required. Resting his feet upon the cross-beam, he leaned
forward and gazed earnestly upon his masterpiece, the darling design which
had haunted his brain for years. "Theta" he called this piece of canvas,
which was a large square painting representing, in the foreground, the
death of Socrates. The details of the picture were finished with
pre-Raphaelite precision and minuteness--the sweep and folds of drapery
about the couch, the emptied hemlock cup--but the central figure of the
Martyr lacked something, and to these last touches Mr. Clifton essayed to
address himself. Slowly, feebly, the transparent hand wandered over the
canvas, and Electra heard with alarm the laboured breath that came panting
from his parted lips. She saw the unnatural sparkle in his sunken eyes
almost die out, then leap up again, like smouldering embers swept by a
sudden gust, and in the clear strong voice of other years, he repeated to
himself the very words of Plato's Phaedo: "For I have heard that it is right
to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up."

Leaning back to note the effect of his touches, a shiver ran through his
frame, the brush fell from his tremulous fingers, and he lay motionless and
exhausted.

Folding his hands like a helpless, tired child, he raised his eyes to hers
and said brokenly--

"I bequeath it to you; finish my work. You understand me-