d but that I have looked at that darn and thought of you.
I liked to remember that you had done it for me. But you have done
far more than this for me: you have put some sweetness into my life.
Whatever becomes of me hereafter, I shall never be able to think of my
life on earth as anything but beautiful, because you thought kindly of
me and acted kindly for me. The other night, when this terrible pain
came over me, I wished you were near me; I wished to hear your voice.
There is very beautiful music in your voice."

"I would have come to you gladly," she said, smiling quietly at him.
"You must make a promise that when you feel ill again you will send for
me. Then you will see what a splendid nurse I am, and how soon you will
become strong and well under my care, strong enough to paint many more
pictures, each one better than the last. Now will you promise?"

"Yes," he said, and he raised her hand reverently to his lips.

"You are not angry with me for doing that?" he asked, suddenly. "I
should not like to vex you."

"I am not vexed," she answered, kindly.

"Then perhaps I may kiss it once more?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered; and again he raised her hand to his lips.

"Thank you," he said quietly; "that was kind of you. Do you see that
broken sun-ray yonder? Is it not golden? I find it very pleasant to sit
here; and I am quite happy, and almost free from pain. Lately I have
been troubled with a dull thudding pain near my heart; but now I feel so
strong that I believe I shall finish that Andrea del Sarto after all."

"Of course you will," she answered, cheerily, "and I shall have to
confess that yours is better than mine! I am quite willing to yield the
palm to you."

"I must alter the expression of the mouth," he replied. "That is the
part which has worried me. I don't think I told you that I have had a
commission to copy Rembrandt's 'Old Jew.' I must set to work on that
next week."

"But you have given me your palette and brushes!" she laughed.

"You must be generous enough to lend them to me," he said, smiling. "By
the way, I intend to give you my books, all of them. Some day I must
show them to you. I especially value my philosophical books; they have
been my faithful companions through many years. I believe you do not
read Greek. That is a pity, because you would surely enjoy Aristotle. I
think I must teach you Greek; it would be an agreeable legacy to leave
you when I pass away into the Great Silence."