How despairing was my regret! With what bitterness I again recalled all I had lost as I contemplated this touching and chaste picture, in admiring that home which was so poor and yet seemed so blessed of God. I know not how long a time I remained absorbed in such thoughts, but it must have been late when I again looked into the salon, for Frank was standing and contemplating his work with the fugitive and pleased look of an artist who is charmed and proud of his work. This satisfaction, rapid and ephemeral as it is, which only lasts a moment, reveals to the artist in that one moment the resplendent beauty of his work in all its perfections. Then, strange phenomenon, this divine lustre once gone, this consciousness of genius once extinct, the artist loses all remembrance of it. It is no more than a vague and far-off dream, whose memory excites him without reassuring him, and he becomes crushed to earth under the terrible doubt as to the real worth of his talents,--eternal torture to a sensitive soul who can compare the limitations of art to the grandeur of nature. After having contemplated his drawing, Frank smiled sadly, covered it over, and went towards a little secretary which stood on the other side of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, took out a purse, and, having put to one side some pieces of gold, he sighed as he looked at the little that remained. Almost at the same instant he glanced quickly and sadly at his wife and her child; then with his forehead bent on his hands he remained for some time with his elbows on the mantelpiece. I understood it all. No doubt this brave man was experiencing one of those terrible alarms during which the reality of his position crushes him with its chilling, deadening weight. The radiant wings of his bright genius, which for a moment he had spread out so gloriously, had dashed against that hideous phantom, which always stands like an open sepulchre,--want! And he had a wife, a child,--and that wife was Hélène! However, after a moment of reflection, Frank proudly raised his beautiful head; his eyes, though moistened with tears, shone with courage and with hope. It may have only been by chance, but his gaze, so touching, and so full of energy, fell on "The Descent from the Cross," by Rembrandt, one of the engravings which ornamented the salon. Thus, as he contemplated this symbol of suffering on earth, Frank's features gradually became serene and grave. Perhaps he was ashamed of his weakness and discouragement, when he remembered the immeasurable sorrow and the angelic patience of the One whose Calvary was so high and whose cross was so heavy.