“I? What shall I tell you, John. I will tell you anything you ask.” “Tell me then of the fairy prince who awakened you indeed, and whom you are to follow through all the world. Tell me of him, that I may congratulate you and him together.” Muriel gazed at him in wonder. If he had not spoken with such sweet seriousness, she would have thought he was jesting. “You said you would tell me anything I asked,” said Harrington, gravely. “Tell me this, then.” “I will, John,” she replied slowly. “I will tell you of him—when I find him. Not till then.” She turned away, musing. It was Harrington’s turn now to look at her with wonder. What did she mean? He had never seen any tokens of duplicity in her, but what was this? Just then in came Wentworth, smiling. Harrington saw her face light as she went toward him, and wondered if she had understood what he had said to her. That’s it, he thought; she could not have understood me. “Ha, Muriel. Good afternoon,” burst out Wentworth in his airy way. “Excuse me for not coming up at once, but I was ransacking my boot. And see what I found. A damson stone. Take it, Harrington, and be happy.” “Come, no nonsense, Richard,” said Muriel. “Let’s go up to the studio, and fence.” Wentworth darted at her, and she nimbly dodged him, flashed out of the room and flew up-stairs, laughing, followed by the young artist on the run. She vanished into the studio before he could come up with her, and Wentworth turned to wait for his friend, who was leisurely ascending the stairs. “Lightfoot cannot outrun Atalanta,” said Harrington. “Exactly so,” returned Wentworth. They went up and into the studio, as it was called, together. It was a large, square, sunlit room, the floor covered with a thick, hard carpet, and it had two windows looking to the west, with boxes on the sills, filled with heliotrope and mignionette, which filled the air with their rich and delicate fragrance. Muriel’s table, with a small easel, cases of water-colors, and bristol-board, drawing paper, tinted sketches, and other artistic paraphernalia, stood near one of the windows. Not far from the other was a moulding stand, on which stood Emily’s bust of her friend, with a box of clay on the floor near it. The walls were a warm grey, and ornamented with three or four of Jullien’s crayons, some plaster medallions and bas-reliefs, and a set of hanging-shelves filled with books. Parallel-bars on one side of the room, a pair of large dumb-bells on the floor, several iron weights, with rings for lifting them, near by, and a set of gilded foils and masks on the wall, gave the studio something of the air of a gymnasium. A small piano, with books of music upon it, a low sofa, and a few plain arm-chairs, completed the furniture of the apartment.