staircase in the wake of her friend. Was it possible she could have
news of _him_? Then she shook her head, for Mrs. Grey was not in her
secret.

They entered the neat little room at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Grey,
walking to the table, never pausing to unfasten her bonnet-strings or to
unbutton her gloves, opened the book and laid it on the table,
exclaiming in triumph, "There you are to the life, Eily! See! it is the
picture of the year, and is called 'The Queen of Connemara.'"

A girl with eyes half-defiant, half-coquettish, lips demure and smiling,
hair tied loosely in a knot at the back of her proudly-set head, was
leaning against the white-washed wall of a thatched cabin--ah! it was
Dermot's own! Eily noted the geraniums in the little blue box that he
had tended himself.

Eily's heart leapt, and then was still; there were her two bare feet
peeping from beneath her thick red petticoat, just as they used in the
olden times, and there was the blue-checked apron she had long ago
discarded. With face now white, now red, she gazed at the picture, then
spelt out its title, "The Queen of Connemara," painted by Leslie
Hamilton.

"Arrah, 'tis Misther Hamilton himself! 'twas he painted me!" she cried
breathlessly, and sank into a chair completely overcome.

"Then, Eily, you are a lucky girl! Every one in London is talking about
'The Queen of Connemara,' and this Hamilton has made his name and
fortune by your picture. Well, well! no wonder you are surprised! Here
is the artist's portrait; do you remember him?" She turned over a few
leaves of the book and pushed it towards Eily.

[Sidenote: "At Last!"]

Did Eily remember him? Ay, indeed! There were the clear blue eyes, the
straight nose, the drooping moustache. Eily snatched up the book
eagerly, "Misther Hamilton! at last! at last!" With a great sob her head
fell forward on the table, and Mrs. Grey guessed the young girl's
secret.

Leslie Hamilton, R.A., was entertaining. In the middle of a smart crowd
of society people he stood, the lion of the season. "The Queen of
Connemara" had made him name and fame. He was smiling on all, as well he
might, for his name was in every one's mouth.

Standing about the studio, chattering gaily, or lounging idly, the
guests of Leslie Hamilton were admiring everything while they sipped tea
out of delicate Sevres cups. The artist himself was busy, yet his
attention was chiefly directed to a beautiful young girl who sat on a
velvet