and he had found a home for them elsewhere. One day, as they sat in the little parlor, he rose hurriedly and went to Christian and took both her hands.
"Try to be happy," he said. "Try to be happy."
He spared no effort to make the future bright for them. He gave no thought to himself, his every hour was spent in thinking for and devising new comfort for them.
But at last all was ready, and there was but one day left to them.
The Works were still closed, and would not be reopened for some weeks, but he had obtained permission to go down to his room, and remove his possessions if he chose. So on the morning of this last day he let himself into his "den," and shut himself up in it. Once behind the closed doors, he began a strange labor. He emptied drawers and desk, and burnt every scrap of paper to ashes—drawings, letters, all! Then he destroyed the delicate models and every other remnant of his past labors. There was not so much as an envelope or blotting-pad remaining. When he had done he had made a clean sweep. The room was empty, cold, and bare. He sat down, at last, in the midst of its desolate orderliness.
At that moment a hand was laid upon the door-handle and the door opened; there was a rustle of a woman's dress—and Rachel Ffrench stood before him.
"What are you doing here, in Heaven's name?" he said, rising slowly to meet her.
She cast one glance around the bare room.
"It is true! You are going away!"
"Yes," he answered, "I am going. I have done my last work here to-day."
She made a step forward and stood looking at him. She spoke under her breath.
