"I have returned," she said in a low, confidential tone, "ostensibly to find a glove I dropped somewhere, but really in order to tell you our address. For I think--that is, I imagine, you might call to see her one of these days." "Oh, can I? Do you think it is possible?" "Certainly. This is a free country. Call by all means. Doris was awfully sad a few minutes after we left you. I am sure she was repenting her harshness to you. She was crying, actually crying. And you looked so miserable when we left you, so I thought I might try to help you both." "You are good!" cried Bernard, taking one of her hands in his, and pressing it warmly. The next minute he was alone, with an envelope in his hand, upon which was written, "Miss Sinclair, c/o. Mrs. Austin, 3, Haverstock Road, King’s Cross, London, N." "How good she is!" Bernard thought. "And what a difference there is now!--I am no longer in despair." He looked round. What a change had come over everything! The huge conservatory in which he stood was a vast palace of beauty: birds--robins mostly--were hopping about and singing a few notes here and there. The visitors looked very happy, and through the glass he could see gardens that were dreams of loveliness. It was not a dull, grey world now: oh, no, but a very pleasant place, full of boundless possibilities! *CHAPTER XII.* *AN ARTIST’S WRATH.* A man may buy gold too dear. _Proverb_. "What does this mean, Alice? Is it here you work? What are you doing?" "Oh, Norman! You here? Oh, dear!" Alice looked up in dismay from her work on the floor of the garret to the tall figure standing in the doorway, with head bent to prevent its being scalped by the low top. "You shouldn’t have come, dear," she faltered. "Shouldn’t have come! I think it is time I did come! Great Scott! What are you murdering here?" He had reached the middle of the room with two strides, and was stooping over a brilliantly limned "oil-painting" Alice had just finished, looking at it with eyes blazing with wrath. "Did you do this?" he demanded. "Did you do this atrocious thing?" "Yes--yes, Norman, I did," faltered his sister. "Then I’m ashamed of you! Here, let me put it on the fire-back." Lifting the picture, he strode towards the fireplace with it. "Don’t, Norman! Don’t! You must not! It--it is _sold_!" "Sold!" cried the artist. "What do you mean? Can any one be so debased as to have bought a thing like that?" he demanded. Alice began to laugh a little wildly. "Oh, Norman, how innocent you are!" she cried. "Don’t you know that some one has said that the population of this island consists of men, women, and children, mostly fools? There are a great many more who admire and buy ’works of art’ like mine than there are to appreciate such paintings as yours!"