abandoned. At last Claude opened the matter
lying heavy at his heart.

"You have never thought of marrying,
Paul?"

Paul shifted his position a little, coloured
very vehemently, and replied that he never
had seriously.

"You ought to think of it, however, my
good boy—why not now?"

Paul replied "That's true."

There was a pause; Claude cleared his
throat.

"If I found you a wife—a good, nice,
charming little wife—would that suit you?"

"Well, perhaps so."

"Do you know any one you could like?"

"Oh, yes!"

Claude's heart fluttered.

"Who?"

"You don't guess? Who could I like
but Edmeé?"

"And do you think she likes you?"

"Ah! that's what I want to know.
Sometimes I hope so; at other times not."

"We'll find out, my lad."

Claude sat by the open door of the garden,
in the warm summer twilight—Edmée in her
old place by his knees.

"My child, I have been thinking a great
deal about you."

She looked up hastily.

"Do you know that you are of an age to
think about being married?"

Heedless of the start she gave, for Claude's
speech was all made up, and he feared that
if he stopped it might stick in his throat and
he would break down, he went on.

He told her how long he had thought of
this; how he felt the loneliness of the life
she led; how little a man like him was fitted
to be the sole instructor, and protector, and
companion of a young girl; how he dreaded
that a day might come—must come, when, if
she were not married, he would have to leave
her alone and unprotected in the wide world;
how dreadfully this thought weighed on him;
how, until she was thus provided for, he never
could feel happy or assured concerning her.
Then he spoke of Paul: of his affection for
her; of all his good qualities; of what peace
and joy he would feel in seeing her united to
him; and then, feeling he could not wait for
her answer, he took her to his heart, kissed
her, bid her think of all he had said, and
took refuge in his painting-room, where he
smoked five pipes without stopping.

So the affair was settled, and the
preparations for the marriage, which was to take
place in a fortnight, went on. Claude made
himself very unnecessarily busy; nay,
perfectly fidgetty, when he might have kept quite
still, and let other people manage matters
infinitely better than he could possibly do.

It was the night before the wedding.
Claude had been out, occupied with the last
arrangements, and returned home towards
eleven o'clock.

As usual, he opened the door with his
latch-key, and entered the quiet little dwelling,
whose silence struck upon him with a
chill of disappointment; for he had secretly
hoped that Edmée would have been up to
greet him, after the occupations of his busy
day. He listened, but there was no quick,
light step, no sound to indicate her
consciousness of his entrance. Claude sighed,
took up the dim light that had been left
burning against his arrival, and instead of
going to his room, turned into the studio.
How deadly still it was! how deserted! the
wan, quivering flame of the little lamp only
made the gloom it could not pierce more
heavy, and as its wavering light flashed and
faded over the faces of the pictures, they
seemed to shudder on him while he passed.

And so it was all over, and she was already
gone from him, and the old, lonely, loveless
life was to be begun again, now that he was
so much less able and fitted to lead it than
formerly. Art is great, and noble, and
elevated, and he who pursues it with all his
energies cannot fail to profit thereby. But,
art is not enough to fill man's life alone.
Art will be worshipped as a sovereign, and
if courted in right guise, sometimes
condescends to let the votary kiss the hem of her
garment, and now and then bestows on him a
smile. But she gives no more than this, and
though for a time it may satisfy him, there
comes a day when he would resign all the
favour she ever accorded him, for a little
human love, and a little human sympathy.
Claude had felt this before he had attained
these. Now he had known them, and was
about to lose them—for ever.

The perfume of flowers—the flowers she
had placed there that morning, before he
went out, drew him to the table. A note lay
on it—a note in her handwriting, and directed
to himself.

A mist passed over his eyes, as he opened
and sought to read the contents, written in a
trembling hand, and here and there blurred
and blotted, how,—he knew.

"My dear, dear friend; my only friend—Forgive
me if you can for the pain I am causing you,
and above all, oh, above all, do not think your
poor child ungrateful. But I cannot marry Paul;
my heart revolts from it. Indeed, indeed, I
have done everything I could to reconcile myself to
it, because you wished it; and I know he deserves a
better wife than I could make him; it is not any
foolish, wicked pride, or self-conceit on my part that
turns me from him; but I cannot love him, poor Paul,
and when he knows this he will learn to forget me, and
marry some one better worthy of him. So I am going
away, because I know all the anxiety you have
concerning me, feeling how little I am now fit for any
other life than the happy one I have led with you
these last years. Do not be afraid for me: I am
young, and strong, and able, and willing to work, and
God will not desert me.

"And later, when I am quite a woman, and have
got used to make my way in the world, and learnt to
obtain a living, I will come back to you, and we will