t you are a silent god,
and will not answer me. I know, I know," she cried, clasping her
slender hands together. "I will go to my father's country, where, he
used to tell me, all the men are fair and all the women good. There I
shall find my art and you, my Saxon god."

When the mother heard of the dream and the resolution she was sad
at first, but decided finally to write to the two maiden sisters of
Ernest King, who had idolized their young, handsome brother, and who
answered promptly that they would gladly receive his only daughter.
Hyacinthe took a brave and smiling leave of the _madre_ and Tancredi,
after having gone to look her farewell at the wingless Love and the
sleeping stricken Ariadne. "Ah, dear Cupid," she whispered, "I am
going to-day to find my art and the Saxon whom my soul loveth.
_Addio_, you and Ariadne!"

From the old into the new, from the tried to the untried, from
inertness to action, from the Greek marbles to Saxon men and women,
from Rome to Britain, from breathing to living. Down the Strand, past
Villiers, Essex, Salisbury, Northumberland and many more streets
whose names tell of vanished splendors, whose dingy lengths are
smoke-blackened, and far enough off from the whole aroma of Belgravia,
is Craven street. The houses are all of a pattern--prim, dingy,
small-windowed habitations, but within this one there must be comfort,
for the fire-flames dance on the meek minute panes and a heavy curl
of smoke is cutting the air above its square, business-like little
chimney-pot. Drawing-room there is none to this mansion, but there is
a pleasant square substitute that the Misses King call "the library"
in the mornings, and "the parlor" after their early, unfashionable
dinner. It is full of old-time furniture, such as connoisseurs are
searching after now--dark polished tables with great claws and little
claws; high presses and cupboards brass bound and with numberless
narrow drawers; spindle-legged chairs, with their worn embroidered
backs and seats; a tall thin bookcase; a haircloth sofa with a griffin
at either end mounting savage guard over an erect pillow; a thick
hearth-rug; and two easy-chairs with cushioned arms and two little old
ladies, the one quaint and frigid--she had once loved and had had a
successful rival; the other quaint and sweet--she had loved too, and
had lost her lover in the depths of the sea.

The rattle of a cab down the still street, a pull-up, a short, sharp
knock, and in t