He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead. It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid's lips. Satisfied upon that point, Artingale's eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia's self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes. It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait. His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory. "I wish Cynthia could see it," he thought; and he took another step forward. That broke the sick man's slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm. "Don't hide it, old fellow," he said. "Why should you?" Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame. "Why should you mind?" continued Artingale. "I've never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like." Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other's eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed. "Mag, old fellow," said Artingale at last, "I'm very, very glad." "Why should you be?" said the other, in a low, weak voice. "It is only an empty dream." "No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing." "What!" said Magnus, bitterly; "trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?" "Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I'm sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?" "Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another." "But that would never be if she knew of your love." "Harry, my dear boy," said the artist sadly, "it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned." "Yes; of course." "And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend." "Yes. Well, where's the madness?" Magnus shook his head sadly.