The brougham stopped and they alighted. Opening the house-door with a latch-key they entered, and pausing one moment in the drawing-room, where the lights had been left burning for their return, Miss Leigh took Innocent tenderly by the arm and pointed to the portrait on the harpsichord. "There was a true genius!" she said--"He might have been the greatest artist in England to-day if he had not let his impressions and prejudices overmaster his judgment. You know--for I have told you my story--that he loved me, or thought he did--and I loved him and knew I did! There was the difference between us! He tired of me--all artists tire of the one face--they want dozens!--and he lost his head over some woman whose name I never knew. The result must have been fatal to his career, for it stopped short just when he was succeeding;--for me, it only left me resolved to be true to his memory till the end. But, my child, it's a hard lot to be alone all one's days, with only the remembrance of a past love to keep one's heart from growing cold!" There was a little sob in her voice,--Innocent, touched to the quick, kissed her tenderly. "Why do you talk like this so sadly to-night?" she asked--"Has something reminded you of--of HIM?" And she glanced half nervously towards the portrait. "Yes," answered the old lady, simply--"Something has reminded me--very much--of him! Good-night, dear little child! Keep your beautiful dreams and ideals as long as you can! Sleep well!" She turned off the lights, and they went upstairs together to their several rooms.