The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1891-10-24

| shoulders, and dark gray hair; he had my
palette in his hand, and he was painting
with sort of nervous intensity that 1t
thrilled one to see. | looked to see what
he was painting, for he kept glancing over
toward the patch in the moonlight; but at
first | could see nothing Then l heard
that little gentle sigh, but not, it seemed to
me, so utterly weary and heartbroken as
formerly; it was sigh almost of content.
And as | pondered on this my eyes seemed
to become more accustomed to the light;
and there in the moonlight, on the very
chair in which Annie had sat, was woman,
leaning slightly forward, young, beautiful,
and very pale-but you have seen the pic
ture. | looked at her now more than at
him, only CHANGING now and then to see
how the work went on. As l watched
her the face changed, and the sorrowful,
worn look gave place to kind OF wonder
ing happiness-he has not quite got 1t IN
the picture; it was as if the feeling were so
intense il made u kind of radiance round
her | don't know how long | watched.
At last sound made Inc turn and look at
the painter; he had thrown down the pal
cite and brushes, and was standing looking
at his work, then he turned slowl y and
held out his hands with suppllcating
gesture She had risen, too, and came a
step forward with wonderful light in her
eyes, and just as she put her hands IN his
cloud crossed over the moon and blotted
out the figures from my sight. When 1t
passed the patch of moonlight was empty,
and there was only the painted head and
the palette lying on the floor to convince
Inc that | had not been dreaming. After
that | must have fallen asleep, for it was
broad daylight when | next remembered
anything, and | heard the welcome and ia
miliar sound of my old woman preparing
my breakfast The smell of frying pill
chards was refreshingly mundane, and |
got up stiff and sore from my uneasy couch,
prepared to find that my phantoms of the
night before had been nothing but Il dream.
No; there was the picture just as you see
it, and on the floor were the palette and
brushes l picked them up, and looked
curiously at them. If you'll believe me,
| could never make up my mind to clean
the paint off that palette, and it hangs
there Just as that fellow left it.
We sat silent for some minutes when
Graves had done. | confess the story i'm
pressed me good deal, and glancing up |
could see that CUTLER was strangely moved.
"And did you never have any explana
ton of the thing ~ said l at last.
"No," said Graves. never had any
explanation, and don't suppose | ever
shall"
Quiller had risen, and stood near the
fire.
Il think can give it, he said, knock
ing the ashes out Of his pipe.
Graves stared at him; no one spoke, and
he went on, as if unwillingly:
That must have been brakes cottage
you had; he was before your time-l dare
say you never heard of him. He lived
there with his wifc-and that's her por-
trait
Graves stare of surprise become more
profound, and Teddy and | looked on in
silent wonder Quiller went on, speaking
like a man that has been carried quite out
of himself:
There was tragic story told about
Drake and his wife He was a good deal
older than she, and changeable and moody
in his ways; and she poor child, was ambi-
tious to help him to be great At first
he was tender and thoughtful toward her,
and then he seemed to forget how fragile
and sensitive she was-he neglected her,
and grew more and more morose and
moody. He used to get very savage about
his models, and complain that 1t was impos-
sible to get any one With intelligence
enough to sit decently. Once his wife
asked him whether she could not some
times help him by sitting, and he only
laughed at her. | remember. 'YOu-you J
he said-that was all. Then the poor
child had an illness, which, if she had
been happier might have ended differently,
and been new happiness to both Of them;
but she was too worn out with sorrow and
disappointment, and in the end she died.
In her delirium she was always calling to
her husband Let me help you, let me be
of some use: only once, dear; paint me only
once: and poor Drake, who woke up to
sense of his loss, was heartbroken at his
inability to satisfy her. The tenderest
and most passionate tones OF his voice
never reached her, and she died without
ever knowing him again. After that
Drake was changed man; he seemed to
have only one idea-to paint the portrait
of his wife. Canvas after canvas he
spoiled, and when | went to see him he
would say: She can not rest until have
done it. | must succeed; sooner or later
| must satisfy her. At length he became
so unmanageable, eating nothing, and
spending long, sleepless nights walking
about the country. that his friends came
and took him awuy. He died some months
after in an asylum
'sBy Jove p said Teddy O'Brien when
Quiller had finished, and then relapsed
into silence.
| looked at Graves, but he was lost in
a wonderment too deep for words.
'The portraits very like her" said
Quiller, with strange awe in his tone.
! ''I'm glad poor Drake succeeded at last. "
You think" said |, and broke off.
CUTLER was putting on his coat. He
answered my unspoken question with a
solemnity for which l was not prepared.
"For % years those two poor ghosts
have been waiting their opportunity. Let
us be thankful that in the end they found
it,"
He seemed to forget to take leave Of us
in any way, and went without another
word. As the door closed each of rs drew
a deep breath of relief. Dick raised his
head with an air of stupefaction.
CHATS a rum story" said Teddy
O'Brien; "why did you meyer tell it before p
''The rummiest thing about it is the
sequel" said 1. 'Dick, old man, is your
part true ?"
81 don't know said Dick; 81 begin to
think it must be.
"Great Scotland Yard p said Teddy
0'Brien, "did you make it up?"
every word of ton the spur of the
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