Denis O'Hara glanced at the sketch. "It is mine," he said, simply.
For a moment the man who had asked that question stood silent and still, gazing down at the picture in his hand, his thoughts and memories centred in something it had recalled. Something—a dream, a hope, a memory?
Ah! even men, the coldest and hardest of men, may have one such dream, one such hope, one such memory. "So it is yours, that sketch," said Jasper Trenoweth. "But it is unfinished. Lend me your pencil, Denis; you may have the credit of the sketch, but I think I alone could tell the story aright."
"And you will, you will!" cried Denis O'Hara eagerly. "How often I've wanted to know—how often I've wondered. Trenoweth, don't think me intrusive or curious, but you know that old folly—the romance of that first year we spent here—if only I knew what had become of—her!"
For a moment Jasper Trenoweth was silent. The others now roused and wondering were looking at him, and at Denis, marvelling at the unwonted excitement of the one, the disturbance of the other. Then they saw the pencil working rapidly over the panel that Jasper Trenoweth held. No one spoke. Swiftly with unerring certainty, with that firmness and ease which bespoke certain knowledge and artistic skill, the sketch grew and lived before their eyes, and Denis O'Hara, breathless and wondering, watched it as no one else watched it, for to him it meant what it could never mean to anyone else, or so, in youth's blind egotism, he imagined.
Then with a deep-drawn breath, almost a sigh, Jasper Trenoweth handed him the sketch, and took the vacant chair placed for himself.
The face of the young artist grew pale as he looked at the little picture.
It was so simple, so unpretentious, and yet it might hold so tragic a meaning.
He looked questioningly at his friend. "I—I cannot understand,” he said hesitatingly. "I could not tell the story from this now."
A faint smile quivered on those pale set lips of Jasper Trenoweth. "No?" he said. "But the sketch was yours; describe it."
"A—a large room, one it seems of many rooms. Pictures cover the wall. Before one picture a group of figures standing. Behind the group a man, his frame bent, almost crippled it seems, leaning on a woman's arm. I—I know the woman—I made this sketch of her long years ago—but"
"I know what you would say," interrupted Trenoweth. "Tell the story of that woman as you know it. I will finish it."
STORY THE FIRST.
"19 on the Line."
Denis O'Hara kept the sketch in his hand, and glanced at it from time to time as he spoke.
"When I first came here," he said, "I had the place all to myself. I came in one of those fits of enthusiasm at which you all laugh. I had determined to do a great work, and I found everything here I wanted—light, views, climate, and models. Our friend Trenoweth introduced me to the place, gaveane inestimable hints, and (no use shaking your head, Jasper; you shall not always hide your light under a bushel) in every way made me at home and comfortable. We were much together, for he was, or said he was, interested in my work, and approved of my subject. Sometimes I painted out of doors, favoured by the soft, grey light and equable climate, for which this place is famous. Sometimes I would work in the studio, and often, taking pity on my loneliness, Trenoweth would drop in here in the evenings, and we would talk—as he alone can make anyone talk. Altogether it was very pleasant, and I am not sure that I felt pleased when one evening he strolled down here to show me a letter he had received from one of our fraternity asking to hire a studio for three months in order to complete a picture.
"The handwriting was bold and clear; the signature at the end of the simple, concise words only 'M. Delaporte.' We discoursed and speculated about M. Delaporte. We wondered if he was old or young, agreeable or the reverse; if he would be a bore, or a nuisance—in fact, we talked a great deal about him during the week that intervened between his letter and his arrival. Trenoweth saw to the arrangements of the studio. It was No. II. he had agreed to let, and gave directions as to trains, &c., and then left me to welcome the new comer who was to arrive by the evening train. I had been out all day, and when I came home tired, cold, and hungry, I saw lights in No. II., and thought to myself, 'My fellow artist has arrived, then.' Thinking it would be only civil to give him
