o wrong, anyhow," was Mrs. Tribb's reflection, as
she closed the door and left the pair together. "But I do hope as that
black-faced husband won't ever learn. He's as jealous as Cain, and I
don't want Master Noel to be no Abel!"

If Mrs. Tribb, instead of going to the kitchen, which she did, had gone
out of the front door, she would have found Chaldea lying full length
amongst the flowers under the large window of the studio. This was
slightly open, and the girl could hear every word that was spoken, while
so swiftly and cleverly had she gained her point of vantage, that those
within never for one moment suspected her presence. If they had, they
would assuredly have kept better guard over their tongues, for the
conversation was of the most private nature, and did not tend to soothe
the eavesdropper's jealousy.

Lambert was so absorbed in his painting--he was working at the
Esmeralda-Quasimodo picture--that he scarcely heard the studio door
open, and it was only when Mrs. Tribb's shrill voice announced the name
of his visitor, that he woke to the surprising fact that the woman he
loved was within a few feet of him. The blood rushed to his face, and
then retired to leave him deadly pale, but Agnes was more composed, and
did not let her heart's tides mount to high-water mark. On seeing her
self-possession, the man became ashamed that he had lost his own, and
strove to conceal his momentary lapse into a natural emotion, by pushing
forward an arm-chair.

"This is a surprise, Agnes," he said in a voice which he strove vainly
to render steady. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," and she took her seat like a queen on her throne, looking
fair and gracious as any white lily. What with her white dress, white
gloves and shoes, and straw hat tied under her chin with a broad white
ribbon in old Georgian fashion, she looked wonderfully cool, and pure,
and--as Lambert inwardly observed--holy. Her face was as faintly tinted
with color as is a tea-rose, and her calm, brown eyes, under her smooth
brown hair, added to the suggestive stillness of her looks. She seemed
in her placidity to be far removed from any earthly emotion, and
resembled a picture of the Madonna, serene, peaceful, and somewhat sad.
Yet who could tell what anguished feelings were masked by her womanly
pride?

"I hope you do not find the weather too warm for walking," said Lambert,
reining in his emotions with an iron hand, and speaking conventionally.

"Not at all