How his spirits had risen high with hope, the night on which he had first gone up those steps. It was on that night Bella had said to him, "Why, you have got a light step and a heavy step, Cousin Antony. I never heard any one walk like that before." He tramped into Central Park, taking his way to the Metropolitan Museum. At the door he was informed that the museum was closed. He gave his card, and, after a few words with the man in charge, Thomas Rainsford the sculptor was let in and found himself, to all intents and purposes, alone. He wandered about the sculptures, wondering where the statue of little "Bella" would be placed. The rooms were delightfully restful. He chose a bench and sat down, resting and musing. In front of one of the early Italian pictures stood an easel with a copy exposed upon it to his view. A reproduction of a sixteenth-century Madonna with a child upon her breast. The copy showed the hand of an adept in colour and drawing. Antony looked at it with keen pleasure, musing upon the beauty of the child. Afterwards he rose and went into the Egyptian room, lingering there. But when he came back the painter was there before her easel, and Antony stood in the doorway to watch her at work. She wore a long brown linen painting apron that covered her form, evidently a slender form, evidently a young form. She painted ardently, with confidence and absorption. As Antony watched her, her pose, her ardour, the poise of her body, the lovely dark head, the gestures, the fire of her, brought all of a sudden his past rushing back to him. The sight of her came to him with a thrilling, wonderful remembrance. He came forward, his light step and his heavy step falling on the hard wood floors of the museum. She turned before he was close to her, her palette and her brushes in her hand. She stood for a moment immovable, then gave a little cry, dropped her palette and brushes on the floor, grew white, then blushed deeply and held out both her hands to him. "Cousin Antony!" He took her hands in his, could not find his voice even to say her name. He heard her say-- "They told me you were dead! I thought you had died long ago--I thought another man had taken your genius and your fame." She spoke fast, with catching breath, in a low vibrant tone that he remembered--how he did remember it! His very life seemed to breathe on her lips in the sound of her voice. "Flow gently, sweet Afton"--the music was here--here--all the music in the world! "I know who you are now; I saw it in the paper. I read it this morning. I saw your picture, and I knew." She stopped to catch her breath deeply. "Oh, I'm so glad!" She was more beautiful than he had dreamed she would be; brilliant, bewitching, and the flowers of his past clustered round her. "I heard them falling through the rooms, the light step and the heavy step." Slowly by both her hands which he held he drew her toward him, and as he held her cheek against his lips he heard her murmur--