The Winslow mail., 1901-01-17
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PORTRAIT.

Spraoue was seated before his easel
arranging his palette for the morn
ing's work. The unfinished portrait of
Agnes Murdock looked down upon him
with eyes of living beauty. Occasional
ly the artist would bestow a deft
touch upon the glowing canvas and
would retire to distance to note with
a critical eye the new effect. Then he
would consult his watch in nervous i'm
patience; and, going to the window,
he would glance anxiously up and
down the street. Once or twice the
rumble of wheels caused him to look
up in glad expectancy, which gradual
ly gave way to gloomy discomfort as
the noise died away in The distance.
At length hope seemed to depart al
together from the young mans breast.
He threw down his brushes, gave up all
pretense of work and drifted off into
brown study. His eyes, fixed upon
those of the portrait, had a troubled
look in them-so troubled that it was
clearly out of all proportion to the
professionalism disappointment of paint
er kept waiting for fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his
gloomy meditations, that, when at last
carriage stopped before the house,
the artist did not hear it. But when,
presently, a gentle tap sounded upon
the door of the studio, he sprang to his
feet as if he had received an electric
shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed
by rapid current of delicious thrills
tingling through every nerve and eff
fecting in his whole being a sudden
and marvellous Transformation. At
once the furrowed brow was smooth;
the dropping lips were wreathed in
smiles; the troubled look gave way to
one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she
stood, with laughing brown eyes and
glowing cheeks, when Sprague threw
open the door. Alas, as usual, she was
accompanied by her maid. Never mind;
was it not enough to have her there at
all, to bask in the sunshine of her
smile, to look into the dangerous
depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to
listen to the ripping of her silvery
voice?
'Ifear I am little late, Mr.. Sprague;
1 am sorry to have kept you waiting.
But you see this is how it was
What mattered it to him now how it
was? Was she not there? An eternity
of suspense and misery would have
been wiped out by that single entran-
dc l.;
like rapturous melody; he drank them
in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdock, followed by her
maid, proceeded at once to the dress
ing-room set apart for the use of the
artists models. When she returned,
dressed for the sitting, she assumed un-
der Sprague's directions the pose of the
portrait. while the artist critically ar
ranged ber draperies and adjusted the
shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dress
ing-room.
"And so these are positively the last
final touches, are they, Mr.. Sprague ?'
asked the young girl, mischievously,
after few minutes. "You artists seem
to be quite as uncertain about your
farewell appearances as any famous ac-
tress or singer"
The artist looked up quickly as the
girl spoke. An expression of pain
crossed his features.
+ 'Yes, Miss Murdock," he answered,
gravely. Il shall not have to trouble
you to pose again"
Miss Murdock's attention was at
tracted by the melancholy note in his
voice. She observed him from the cor
ner of her eyes in kindly curiosity.
The artist fell into a moody silence.
For awhile he worked with feyerish ac-
tivity at the portrait; and then, grad
ually falling into fit of melancholy
abstraction, he sat, with poised brush,
gazing intently at the beautiful Girl
before MIN. His task forgotten, he
was apparently unconscious that he
was taking advantage Of his privileged
position to stare at his fair subject. Ag-
nes felt his burning glance and was en-
barrassed by it; but, womanlilke, she
retained control of herself, outwardIv.
at ali events, as she uttered some com
monplace remark which broke the
spell and brought the artist to his
senses with sharp consciousness of
his rudeness. He replied to the young
girls question in low, changed voice,
and then relapsed into gloomy silence.