and guarded his
accumulated rubbish.

So, of course, I went there, and the ancient party looked at me
suspiciously, till I identified myself. Then she gave me the freedom of
the place and I hunted high and low, till, finally, I discovered the
"Mother and Child" hidden in a large closet and brought it out. I placed
it on the easel and glared at it till it grew dark.

The wonder of that picture! Great Heavens! I remembered how I had once
accused Gordon of having been imaginative in his rendering of the
model's beauty. At that time my vision must have been coarse and
untrained. His genius had at once seized upon her glory, whereas I had
dully and slowly spelled it out. But now my eyes were open! It was
Frances herself, it was truth, it was the greatness of motherhood
revealed, it was the charm and sweetness of the woman who exalts and
uplifts, it was art _grandiose_ held beautifully in bond by the eternal
verity. I saw that some bright gobbets of flashing paint, that had
surprised me at first, were amazing touches of genius. He had played
with colors as a Paderewski plays with notes, to the ultimate rendering
of a noble and profound reality, of poetry made tangible and clear, of
ringing harmony expressing true heartbeats. And now my friend Pygmalion
had been spurned by his statue come to life and was picking up shattered
heroes, that he might forget.

I can honestly say that the ancient dame, who saw to what Gordon was
pleased to call his rubbish, was faithfully watched. I would come in at
odd times, when the spirit moved me, and sit for hours before the
picture. It gave me inspiration when the fount of my ideas had utterly
dried up, and I would return home, able to write a few good pages. What
if it was but one more way of indulging the drugging of my soul! Like
other fiends I was held fast. Porter has told me that the victims of
morphia no longer take pleasure in their vice. The following of it, to
them, means but the relief of suffering, and there is no joy in it. In
this respect I stood far above the level of the poor beings fallen thus
low, for the painted Frances was a perennial delight, as her own living
beauty was utter happiness for some hours. The reaction only took place
when I was alone in my room, and, even there, I often indulged in dreams
and visions as full of charm as they were unreal.

Then, one fine day, came a letter from Signor Richetti, stating that he
would return upon a certain date and resume