blue--fathomless, boundless, blue.

Jane gazed at the golden battlements above the purple hills, and
repeated, half aloud: "And the city was of pure gold;--and had no need
of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it: for the glory of God
did lighten it. And there shall be no more death; neither sorrow, nor
crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are
passed away."

Ah, how much had passed away since she stood at that western window,
not an hour before. All life seemed readjusted; its outlook altered;
its perspective changed. Truly Garth had "gone behind his blindness."

Jane raised her eyes to the blue; and a smile of unspeakable
anticipation parted her lips. "Life, that shall endless be," she
murmured. Then, turning, found the little bear, and restored him to his
place upon the mantelpiece; put back the chair; closed the western
window; and, picking up the two canvases, left the studio, and made her
way carefully downstairs.

CHAPTER XXX

"THE LADY PORTRAYED"

"It has taken you long, Miss Gray. I nearly sent Simpson up, to find
out what had happened."

"I am glad you did not do that, Mr. Dalmain. Simpson would have found
me weeping on the studio floor; and to ask his assistance under those
circumstances, would have been more humbling than inquiring after the
fly in the soup!"

Garth turned quickly in his chair. The artist-ear had caught the tone
which meant comprehension of his work.

"Weeping!" he said. "Why?"

"Because," answered Nurse Rosemary, "I have been entranced. These
pictures are so exquisite. They stir one's deepest depths. And yet they
are so pathetic--ah, SO pathetic; because you have made a plain woman,
beautiful."

Garth rose to his feet, and turned upon her a face which would have
blazed, had it not been sightless.

"A WHAT?" he exclaimed.

"A plain woman," repeated Nurse Rosemary, quietly. "Surely you realised
your model to be that. And therein lies the wonder of the pictures. You
have so beautified her by wifehood, and glorified her by motherhood,
that the longer one looks the more one forgets her plainness; seeing
her as loving and loved; lovable, and therefore lovely. It is a triumph
of art."

Garth sat down, his hands clasped before him.

"It is a triumph of truth," he said. "I painted what I saw."

"You painted her soul," said Nurse Rosemary, "and it illuminated her
plain face."

"I SAW her soul," said Garth, almost in a whisper; "and