As the winter came on, Dalny began to miss the tread of the old man outside his door. The old sister never made any noise, so he never knew when she went up and down unless he happened to be on the stairs at the same moment. He knew the old man was at work, because he could hear his ceaseless tramp before his easel--walking up to his picture, laying on a pat of color, and walking back again. He himself had walked miles--had been doing it the day before in his efforts to give "carrying" quality to the shadow under the nose of the brewer's better half. "I do not see your brother any more," Dalny had said to her one morning, after meeting her by accident outside his door carrying a basket with a cloth over it. "No," she answered; "no; he cannot spare a moment these days. He hardly takes time to eat, and I do all the errands. But he is very happy." Here her face broke into a smile. "Oh, so happy! We both are----" "And is the great picture finished?" he interrupted, with a movement as if to relieve her of the weight of the basket. "Almost.... Almost.... Adolphe will tell you when it is ready. No--please, good Mr. Dalny--it is not heavy. But I thank you all the same for wanting to help me. It is a little hot soup for Adolphe. He is very fond of hot soup, and they make it very nice at the corner." The day following this interview Dalny heard strange noises overhead. The steady tramping had ceased; the sounds were as if heavy furniture was being moved. Then there would come a pattering of lighter feet running in and out of the connecting room. Then a noise as if scrubbing was being done; he thought at one time he heard the splash of water, and even looked up at his own ceiling as if expecting a leak. Suddenly these unusual sounds ceased, the old man's door was flung open, a hurried step was heard on the upper stairway, and a sharp knock fell upon his own door. Dalny opened it in the face of the old man. He was bareheaded, his eyes blazing with excitement, his face flushed as if by some uncontrollable joy. "Come--quick!" he cried; "we are all ready. It was perfected this morning. We have been putting things in order for you, for we do not ever have guests. But you must be careful--your eyes are not accustomed, perhaps, and----" Dalny darted back without listening to the old man's conclusion, and threw on his coat. The faded sister was upstairs, and he must be presentable. "And you like your picture," burst out Dalny, as he adjusted his collar and cuffs--part of the old man's happiness had reached his own heart now. "Like it? It is not something to _like_, Mr. Dalny. It is not a meal; it is a religion. You are in a fog, and the sun bursts through; you are in a tunnel, and are swept out into green fields; you grope in the dark, and an angel leads you to the light. You do not 'like' things then--you thank God on your knees. Louise has done nothing but cry."