ne. It's the carol-singers, singing
because Jesus was born."

"But, mother ... it _is_ the gipsies, isn't it?... 'Cos look..."

"Look where?"

"At Aunt Rachel, mother ... The gipsy woman wouldn't go without her
little baby, would she?"

"No, she wouldn't do that."

"Then has she _lent_ it to Aunt Rachel, like I lend my new toys
sometimes?"

The mother glanced across at Aunt Rachel, and then gathered the
night-gowned figure more closely.

"The darling's only half awake," she murmured.... "Poor Aunt Rachel's
sleepy too...."

Aunt Rachel, her head dropped, her hands lightly folded as if about some
shape that none saw but herself, her face again ineffable with that
sweet and peaceful smile, was once more rocking softly in her chair.

HIC JACET

A TALE OF ARTISTIC CONSCIENCE

INTRODUCTION

As I lighted my guests down the stairs of my Chelsea lodgings, turned up
the hall gas that they might see the steps at the front door, and shook
hands with them, I bade them good night the more heartily that I was glad
to see their backs. Lest this should seem but an inhospitable confession,
let me state, first, that they had invited themselves, dropping in in
ones and twos until seven or eight of them had assembled in my garret,
and, secondly, that I was rather extraordinarily curious to know why, at
close on midnight, the one I knew least well of all had seen fit to
remain after the others had taken their departure. To these two
considerations I must add a third, namely, that I had become tardily
conscious that, if Andriaovsky had not lingered of himself, I should
certainly have asked him to do so.

It was to nothing more than a glance, swift and momentary, directed by
Andriaovsky to myself while the others had talked, that I traced this
desire to see more of the little Polish painter; but a glance derives its
import from the circumstance under which it is given. That rapid turning
of his eyes in my direction an hour before had held a hundred questions,
implications, criticisms, incredulities, condemnations. It had been one
of those uncovenanted gestures that hold the promise of the treasures of
an eternal friendship. I wondered as I turned down the gas again and
remounted the stairs what personal message and reproach in it had lumped
me in with the others; and by the time I had reached my own door again a
phrase had fitted itself in my mind to that quick, ironical turning of
Andriaovsky's eyes: _"Et tu, Brute!.