The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1903-08-26

formed the picture he was expected to
paint, how beautiful it was! Never in
his fancy, prolific as it was with lovely
forms and faces, had he beheld a
countenance like this! 1t was angelic
in its purity and yet human in its quiet
look of grief and resignation. 1t had
lines as exquisite as those we see in
the ideal heads of the most famous
masters, and yet one scarcely saw
those lines or the delicate curves Of
cheek and chin for the expression
which stepped the whole in heaVcnliest
sweetness. If dead then no living
woman was fair, for she seemed to
hold all beauty within the scope Of her
perished personality and to compress
into the narrow space shone upon by
those two rows of candles all the love-
illness and the mystery which had
hitherto enshrined the world Of wom-
ankind in his eyes. Her head reposed
upon a white silken pillow, across
which streamed a mass of midnight
hair in a tangle Of great lustrous curls.
One lay in motionless beauty on her
breast, and so unlike death was the
whole vision that he found. himself
watching this curl in eager anticipa-
tion Of seeing it move with the rising
and falling Of her breath.
But it lay quiescent, as did the wax.
en- lids above the closely shut eyes.
and at this discovery, which proved
of q surety that she was dead, he felt
such a pang Of despair that he knew
that whereas he had hitherto looked
at woman with his eyes he was sur.
veying this one with his heart; that a
feeling akin to love had awakened in
his breast, and that this feeling was
for a dead image--a soulless, pulseless
morsel Of clay.
The consciousness of his folly made
him blush, and drawing back he again
looked about him for the old crone.
She was not far away. Seated at one
end of the apartment. in a low chair,
with her figure bent forward and her
head buried in her hands she was
rocking slowly to and fro in what
seemed like silent anguish. But when
he approached her and she looked up
there We're no tears in her eyes nor
signs Of trouble about her sordid and
almost sinister mouth.
Where is Signor Montelli?" asked
the artist. "Is he not present? l a..
lude to the gentleman who wrote me a
note this morning requesting me to
come here and draw him a picture"
But she made no reply-that is, no
ineligible reply. She murmured some
words, but they were in a language he
did not recognize, and the mystery
seemed to be deepened rather than
cleared by her presence.
"Can you not speak English?" he in.
quired.
She smiled, but evidently did not un.
derstand what he said.
Nor French?'
She smiled again and muttered few
more of her foreign words, this time
with a deprecating air and an entreat-
ing gesture.
He knew a smattering Of Spanish
and tried her with that, but with no
better result. Discouraged, he repeat.
ed the one word they both knew.
"Montelli? Montelli" he cried, and
looked about him with peering eyes.
This time she had the appearance Of
understanding his meaning. She made
a gesture toward the street, then point
ed to herself and courtesied. Finally
she laid finger on the portfolio under
his arm, smiled and led him up to the
young girl.
There was 10 misunderstanding this
pantomime; he was to draw a picture
of the dead. Satisfied and yet vaguely
uneasy he bowed and opened his port.
folio. The old crone brought forward
a chair, then small table, and cour.
tesying again disappeared once more
in the background. He took the chair,
opened his portfolio and began to con.
template the picture before him.
1t was perfect, even. from an artistic
standpoint. Had he arranged the
couch, the drapery, the flowers and the
lights be could not have made q more
harmonious whole. He could not even
find an excuse for readjusting the
locks Of the loosely curling hair; all
was as it should be, and he had only to
put pencil to paper.