The representative. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1893-1901, 1901-02-14
(Continued.)

(Continued.)
yes, Miss Murdoch" he answered,
gravely. II 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 feverish ac-
tivity at the portrait; and then, grad
ually falling into a fit of melancholy
abstraction, he sat, with poised brush,
gazing intently at the beautiful girl
before him. His task forgotten, he
was apparently unconscious that he
was taking advantage of his privileged
position to stare at his fair subject. Ag-
mes felt his burning glance and was en-
barrassed by It; but, womanlike, she
retained control of herself. outwardly,
at all 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 a low, changed voice,
and then relapsed into gloomy silence.
After an awkward interval he asked,
suddenly:
''Are you so very glad, Miss Murdoch,
that our sittings are almost over?"
''Why. no, Mr.. Sprague," replied Ag
mes; Il did not mean that. OF course
I shall be glad when the portrait is
finished, because wish to have 1t home
and to let my friends see it. But I
should be indeed ungrateful If I be-
grudged my poor little time and trou
BILE, when yours have been so lavishly
and so ungrudgingly spent"
"These sittings have been source
of so much pleasure to me-" continued
Sprague. thoughtfully, that l have
sefishly overlooked the fact that they
could Only be an annoyance and bore
to you. l fear / have needlessly pro-
longed them"
But, indeed, Mr.. Sprague, l assure
you it has been anything but bore to
me to pose. I am sure ! shall miss the
pleasant morning hours l have spent
here"
"They have been the happiest hours
of my life" said Sprague, earnestly, in
low voice, land now they are nearly
gone-forever."
Agnes started slightly, blushett and
riveted her gaze upon the dainty white
hands which lay clasped together in
her lap. Her bosom rose and fell in
quickened undulations.
"Why forever, Mr.. Sprague?" she
asked, softly; do you think of leav-
ing New York?''
No" he replied quickly; sit is you
who are about to desert this studio,
which for short time has been
frightened by your presence"
well" interrupted Agnes, since
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PORTRAIT.
Sprague was seated before his easel
arranging his palette for the morn
ings work. The unfinished portrait Of
Agnes Murdoch 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 inn
PoeiNhNN, "AAS, SoiA'S w viz 'ih'o"b
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 ,he 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 a
brown study. His eyes, fixed upon
those of the portrait had troubled
look in them--so troubled that it was
clearly out of all proportion to the
professional disappointment ola paint
er kept waiting for fair subject.
SO absorbed did he become in his
gloomy medtations. that, when at last
carriage stopped before the house,
the artist did not hear it. But when,
presently, 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
tinglng through every nerve and ef
IectlnR III MS WHoie DtiuS d SutiueI
and marvellous Transformation. At
once the furrowed brow was smooth;
the dropping lips were wreathed i'll
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 soulstirring eyes, to
listen to the ripping of her silvery
voice?
Ifear am little late, Mr.. Sprague;
l am sorry to have kept you waiting.
But yon see this is how it vas
What mattered 1t 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-
cling fact. He~ words beat upon his ear
like rap, urouS melody; he drank them
in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdoch. 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 I'M
der Sprague's directions the pose of the
portrait while the artist critically ar