"You never asked me for more." "Could you have given it me if I had?" A dusky red stole over the artist’s face. He became conscious of the presence of a stranger. "This lady must pardon us," he said to his sister, with a glance at Doris, "for speaking of our private affairs before her." "Oh, she does not mind, I’m sure," said Alice. "May I introduce my brother to you, Doris?" Doris bowed coldly. She went on with her painting, begging them not to mind her being there. "It is most important that the work should be finished to-night," she said, "and I must work the harder because Alice is being hindered." "I fear I am the cause of that," rejoined the artist, quite meekly. "But I have had some difficulty in finding the place where my sister works, and now that I am here I must say what I think." Doris made no rejoinder, and, having cast an admiring glance at her winsome face and pretty figure, he turned to Alice again, saying, "No consideration of mere money should prevent your instantly ceasing this disgraceful work." Alice began to pout. "It’s all very fine talking like that, Norman," she said, "but how do you propose to keep us if--if I abandon this?" She looked from him to her work. "How did we live before? I suppose we can exist in the same way." "We cannot! I have nothing more to sell, or--pawn." "If only my paintings would sell!" He began to walk up and down again. He was thinking now, with huge disgust, that he had been living for many months upon the proceeds of sham oil-paintings. It was a bitter thought. "Better to have died," he muttered, "than to have lived so!" Aloud he said, "But I must insist upon your giving up this work. It is wicked, positively wicked work! You must not do it." "I cannot give it up. I must do it." "You must not! You shall not! I really---- Upon my word, if you do such things you shall not live with me!" He was in great anger now, the veins upon his temples stood out like cords; he could scarcely refrain from rending into pieces the hateful "frauds" upon which he was looking. A cry of pain escaped from his sister’s lips. She was pale as death. Her brother had never been angry with her before. Their love for each other had been ideal. Then Doris spoke, turning from her easel and looking up at the artist with flashing eyes. "There are vipers," she said, "which sting the hands that feed them. Alice, dear," she added, with a complete change of tone and manner, "come to me." She held out her arms, and Alice flew into them, clinging to her and crying as if her heart would break. "Go!" said Doris to the artist, pointing to the door. "Go, and live alone with your works of art. You cannot recognise or appreciate the self-denial and love which is in the heart of one of the noblest sisters in the world!" [Illustration: "’GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.’"]