“A trump?” repeated Harrington. “I wish he was a trump that could sound some of you fellows into life. Yes, there was a man behind the artist in Michael, and his works are cryptic with his humanity. By the way, Richard, how comes on the ‘Death of Attucks?’” The “Death of Attucks” was a picture which Wentworth, instigated by Harrington, had begun to paint in illustration of the picturesque scene on that wild March night of the early Revolution, when a black man flung himself on the bayonets for a country which enslaves his race, and has scribes to defile his memory. “Well,” replied Wentworth, with a look of momentary sadness, “I haven’t painted much lately—so the picture stands. O me,” he sighed, “I see intellectually the truth of all you say about the relation of liberty to art, but somehow I don’t get kindled.” “Look here, Richard,” said Harrington, “you ought to hear Wendell Phillips.” “So I ought,” answered Wentworth, “and I mean to sometime.” “You must,” replied Harrington. “He will show you the ideal beauty of anti-slavery. Many a young man has found his eloquence the golden door to a life for liberty. Now Muriel has planned to go to the Convention to-night, and you are to go with us, and I hope you will hear him. “Who are going?” asked Wentworth. “We four,” replied Harrington. “You three,” responded Wentworth; “I won’t go.” “Oh, but you must,” replied Harrington. “I promised to bring you there to tea, and my word is at stake.” Wentworth was silent, and sat with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his face reluctant and uneasy. Harrington watched him, and felt that there was some reason connected with either Muriel or Emily for his desire to avoid going to Temple street that evening. Suddenly the story Witherlee had told him about Wentworth and Muriel flashed into his memory, and with it came the sharp suspicion that Witherlee had lied. Could it be, after all, that Wentworth and Emily were lovers? Harrington’s heart trembled, and he determined to question Wentworth on the spot. “Richard,” said he, “why are you averse to going up to Temple street this evening? Is it on account of anything in this talk of Fernando’s which John Todd told you?” “Oh, no,” replied Wentworth, coloring. “I don’t care—I’ll go since you desire it.” “Richard,” said Harrington, after an awkward pause, “pardon my rudeness, but I want to ask you a frank question, and I have a reason for asking it. Are you in—well, have you, as Witherlee said, one of Cupid’s arrows in your bleeding heart?” Harrington tossed out the question gaily, but with a flushed face, and his heart beating. As for Wentworth he was scarlet to the roots of his hair, and with his eyes fixed on the floor, toyed with his moustache in great confusion. “Oh, that wasn’t Witherlee’s phrase,” he stammered evasively. “That was my way of reporting what he said.” “Well,” returned Harrington, “but is it true or not?” Wentworth was silent for a moment.