knew just what the subject was, but it was pretty generally conceded to be something quite out of the common. His wife was brimming with enthusiasm about the new picture. It obtruded itself in her conversation at every tarn. She seemed unable to talk of anything else. If she had been a less beautiful and attractive woman, this weakness would have been a bore. As it was, we all caught the infection, and Dana's new picture was the theme for general discussion everywhere and at all seasons. It came up at teas, dinners, receptions, in the clubroom and on the street. Whenever you saw two or more people earnestly engaged in conversation, you might be sure they were talking about the picture.
As it neared completion the interest intensified. Along about this time Mrs. Dana's health began to fail. Colton was called in. His father has been the Dana's family physician before either he or Gus came into the world, and he naturally took the place left vacant by the old doctor's death.
Now Colton was always something of a mystic, had all sorts of notions about occult influences, etc. Perhaps this had something to do with his diagnosis of Mrs. Dana's case. She had been gradually losing ground for several months. It was early in May when she took to her bed. Colton was deeply interested. He spent as much time at the house as he could possibly spare, but, in spite of all his efforts, she made no progress toward recovery.
She did not suffer, at least she never complained of either pain or discomfort, but it was evident to all that she grew daily weaker. She would lie for hours in her darkened room without speaking or moving, but with an intent, eager look upon her face.
The great picture was nearly finished now. Dana spent most of his time in the studio. He came in to see his wife every evening. She would put her arms, grown pitifully thin, up around his neck, and hold his face close against her own as if she could never let him go. But she always sent him away early. He must have rest after his hard day's work, and nothing must be suffered to interfere with progress of the picture.
The atmosphere of the sickroom was apt to prove depressing,, she said, and refused to allow him to sit with her more than a brief half hour.
Love! I tell you there's nothing in all this world as tender and strong and true as the love of woman. It reaches as high as heaven and down to the depths of hell. It is the miracle-maker of the universe.
One evening toward the last of the month Fisk and I were strolling down the street on which the Danas lived, when we saw Colton's brougham dash up to their door and stop. Colton himself sprang out and ran up the steps. He had evidently been sent for in haste, for the door was opened before he had time to ring.
"She must be worse," remarked Fisk. Yet none of us at that time dreamed that she was in any immediate danger.
We went on to the club, where we were to dine together. Tom Tresset was standing on the clubhouse steps.
"Hello! heard the news?" he cried. We had not heard any news and said so.
"The picture is finished."
"At last?"
"At last! Saw Dana this afternoon. He was just putting in the final touches."
"Did you see it?"
"No, but he's asked the lot of us for tomorrow. Said it was his wife's idea—keeping it dark this way. She hasn't seen it herself—hasn't been inside his studio since he began work on it. Funny, isn't it, when she's so wrapped up in him and his pictures?"
"She is sick, you know."
"Yes, that's true. Well, Gus wants us to come up tomorrow morning and look at the thing — says his wife wants us to come."
"By the way," said Fisk, "I'm afraid Mrs. Dana's not so well today. We saw Colton rushing in there as we came along."
"That so? Wonder why Colton don't brace her up with his tonics and stuff, and get her out again. It's deucedly dull without her."
The hour had grown late. None of us realized that it was after midnight till McArthurs came in. He looked pale and disturbed.
"What's up, Mac? You look as if you had just come from an interview with a ghost?" cried Fisk.
