Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1905-09-05

| that she had charms of mind as well
as body; when she began to talk-at
first she was very silent and reserved
he found that she had many original
thoughts and graceful fancies.
Perhaps the pleasantest half hour In
the afternoon was when she came
down from the throne for rest and
the housekeeper brought in tea. She
was woman enough to appreciate the
dainty arrangements Of the tea tray,
and Adrian liked to see her handling
his old Worcester, pouring out his
cream and eating his cakes: she SEEM
ed more woman than saint then. They
would discuss the progress Of the pic
ture, for she could take an intelligent
interest in his work, and he had more
than once profited by her suggestions.
1t pleased him to see that, SO far from
her unusual occupations tiring her,
she seemed to enjoy 1t.
At last the day came when the pic
ture was complete; the finishing touch
had been given. and even Adrian, who
was always his own severest critic,
was fain to acknowledge that he was
content. 1t was worthy st. Mar
garet; from the sole Of her foot to the
crown Of her head there was no blem-
ish in her.
81 am not like that" Bernice said
softly when they had stood few min
utes side by side in silence, absorbed
in contemplation of the lovely figure.
poised so lightly that it almost seemed
to be soaring upward "You have
idealized me-"
"Not very much, think" Adrian an
swered gently, and when he turned
round there was look Of worship IN
his eyes. "a little more saint a little
less woman, perhaps; that is all. She Is
worthy of you-and you Of her"
Don't say thatw she cried harshly.
moving away from him. "You don't
know-you can't tell! am no saint"
saint enough for me-" he said ten
derly, holding out his hands to her.
"Bernice-my st. Margaret
But she flung up her hands to her
face, shrinking away from him.
"Have 1 startled you. dear one?
Didn't you know, couldn't you feel,
that loved you? thought you under
stood me. at first it was all my st.
Margaret you were only the woman
who could give me her face; then grad
ually it changed, and forgot the saint
in the woman. Do you wonder that
this Is so dear to me?-pointing to the
picture. Do you wonder that l have
painted it as l never painted anything
before? You were my inspiration.
There is the genius of love in every
stroke. 1t is yours far more than mine.
"And now," with little happy laugh,
81 wan to come down out of the
clouds; l want you, Bernice, nothing
and no one else-nOt even st. Marga-
ret. l want a wife just like any ordi-
nary man who has not vowed that art
shall be his only mistress and spent
half his days In dreams and Visions
Won't you speak to me? have thought
you cared for me little. Don't say
have been mistaken"
The happiness died out Of his voice
and face as she still held herself away
from him and gave no sign.
Presently she looked up, and he ut
tered a cry of dismay when he saw her
face. 1t was white and cold-frozen,
It seemed, into a look Of stony despair
all Its beauty gone, the starry eyes
d,,ll md heayv with Dain
"What is it? What have I done" he
asked breathlessly. "You are ill-suf-
ferlng. Bernice, for Gods sake speak!'
81 am going away" she said, and
each word cost her an effort. "Have
mercy and don't stop me. Go to Mr..
Farrell; he will explain everything-l
can't" And she turned to go.
Cold with underlined fear, too bewil-
dered to speak, he made no effort to de-
tain her.
"Forgiye me-" she murmured, drop
ping at bis feet and passionately kiss
Ing his hand. II didn't know what l
was doing. Try and forgive me-by
and BY" The next moment she was
gone.
Some hours later he was still sitting
In the same place. his arms thrown on
the easel that bore the picture of his
saint, his head buried in his hands,
when the door opened and some one
came In. 1t was quite dark In the
room now, and he could not see who