rns my affection, and she is a
woman in ten thousand--a woman for whose love one might well count the
world well lost. I cannot, I will not, give her up."

The young artist's declaration, strange to say, brought no angry
response from Stephen Foster. For an instant the hard lines on his
face melted away, and there was a gleam of something closely akin to
admiration in his eyes; he actually made a half-movement to hold out
his hand, but as quickly withdrew it. He turned and opened the door.

"Is this your last word?" he asked from the threshold.

"That rests with you. I cannot retreat from my position. Should I
renounce your daughter, after winning her heart, I would deserve to
be called--"

"Very well, sir," interrupted Stephen Foster. "I shall know what
measures to take in the future. Forewarned is forearmed. And, by the
way, to save you the trouble of hanging about Strand-on-the-Green, I
may tell you that I have sent my daughter out of town on a visit."

With that parting shot he went down the short flight of steps, and
passed into the street. Jack closed the door savagely, and began to
walk up and down the studio, as restless as a caged beast.

"Here's a nice mess!" he reflected. "Angry parent, obdurate daughter,
and all that sort of thing. But I rather fancy I scored--he gained
nothing by his visit, and after he thinks the matter over he will
probably take a more sensible view of it. His appeal to me shows clearly
that he failed to make Madge yield."

On the whole, after further consideration, Jack concluded that there was
no ground for despondency. His spirits rose as he recalled the girl's
earnest and loving promises, her assurances of eternal fidelity.

"My darling will be true to me, come what may," he thought. "No amount
of persuasion or threats can induce her to give me up, and in the end,
when Stephen Foster is convinced of that, he will make the best of it
and withdraw his objections. If Madge has been sent out of town, she
went against her will. But, of course, she will manage to let me hear
from her."

Jack sat down to his desk, intending to write a letter to a friend in
Paris, a well-to-do artist who lived in the neighborhood of the Pare
Monceaux. He held his pen undecidedly for a moment, and then leaned back
in his chair with a puzzled countenance.

"By Jove, it's queer," he muttered; "but Stephen Foster's voice was
awfully familiar. We never met before, and I never laid eyes on the man,
so f