breast. Then there rang in his ear that
terrible moan when Judge Colton denounced them both; and the sob in
her voice as she sank at his feet that night. He could catch the very
perfume of her hair and feel the hot tears on his hand. If only the
lips would open and once more whisper his name! What had sent her
back, to soothe him with her beauty?

His whole life passed in review--his hopes, his ambitions, his
struggles; the years of loneliness, of misunderstanding, and the final
triumph--a triumph made all the more bitter by a fate which had
prevented her sharing it with him. With this there arose in his mind
the picture of two gaunt chimneys outlined against a cold, gray sky;
the trees bare of leaves, the grass shrivelled and brown--and then,
like a refrain, came the long-forgotten song:

"Weep no mo', me lady."

Raising himself to his feet he leaned over the mantel and looked long
and steadily into the eyes of the portrait.

"Olivia," he whispered--in a voice that was barely audible--"I did
not intend to be cruel. Forgive me, dear; there was nothing else to
do--it was the only way, my darling!"

He was still in his chair, the studio a blaze of light, when a brother
painter from the studio opposite, whose knock had been unheeded,
pushed open the door. Even then Gregg did not stir until the intruder
laid a hand upon his shoulder.

VI

By noon the next day half the occupants of the old studio building
came in to see the new portrait. He had not told of this one, but the
brother painter had spread the news of the "find" through the
building.

It was not the first time Adam Gregg's "finds" had been the subject of
discussion among his fellows. The sketch by Velasquez--now the pride
of the gallery that owned it--and which had been discovered by him in
a lumber-room over a market, and the Romney which had been doing duty
as a chimney-screen, had been the talk of the town for weeks.

"Looks more like a Sully than a Stuart," said the brother painter, his
eyes half closed to get the better effect. "Got all Sully's coloring."

"Stunning girl, anyway; doesn't make any difference who painted it,"
suggested another. "That kind seem to have died out. You read about
them in books, but I've never met one."

"Wonderful flesh," remarked a third with meaning in his voice. "If it
isn't by Sully it's by somebody who believed in him."

No one suspected Gregg's brush. His style had changed with the
years--so had h