he life that it will find there, the
life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world,
as you speak of it, will never mould or change."

They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down
its length to the portieres that hid the _atelier_ from view--but here
Bidelot paused.

"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in
Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came
back?"

"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton--and,
reaching out his hand, drew the portieres quietly apart.

And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the
_atelier_--and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved.

Two life-sized figures were before him--a woman, and a man. And the
woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and
leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from
storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and
shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of
the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare
arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords
as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the
surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures--as in some mighty
power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew
all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of
victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things
and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that
clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the
strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the
man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the
darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent
unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now
dying muttering away--and all was storm and battle and dismay and
death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds--a glad and
perfect triumph--victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly
set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine
touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they
panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust
and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory
from out the d