"Because, were I in your place, I should shun the atmosphere where breathed such another as myself, like that of a pest-house." "Pardon me, Tremenhere, you would do as I do--feel sincere pity for a man, whose severest punishment must be his own bitter remorse and regret." Tremenhere looked silently at him a moment. "You have indeed said truly," he uttered at last, and turned away towards the covered picture before him. "Tremenhere," said Skaife, laying a hand on his arm, "I rejoice to hear you speak as you do; for vain as it may be, 'twill solace you all the remaining years of your life to remember _her_--as she was. You see I know to what you allude." "Remember her, Skaife! What can that do for me? Remember that, but for the insane promptings of some demon, jealous of my happiness, I might now have her beside me, a living, breathing creature, instead of only this!" And he drew back the veil from his painting, and there, on the speaking canvass, was Minnie--oh, Minnie, as though she breathed before him! There is nothing so faithful as memory. It was an altar-piece, of which he had before spoken--a Madonna and child. The eyes looked forth serene and beautiful, patient, and with that predestined look which such a face should have--a look of future sorrow, future and immortal hope. Minnie's was all a face should be for so holy a purpose; and when Skaife remembered all she had suffered, he felt how well Tremenhere had chosen the subject, to call her features into life's seeming. "It is like her, is it not?" asked the latter, fixing his deep, earnest gaze upon the face. "And I have tried to throw into the countenance something of the trouble I _have_ seen there--something of what must have been, when she was at Marseilles! Skaife, I went there a week since, and learned all; since my return, I have passed the heavy hours of day and night in pourtraying the look which I divined hers, in that sad room where my child was born!" "Have you been there?" exclaimed the other, a joy almost beyond controul bursting his heart; for he had come to that room in fear, of what he might hear. "Yes," answered Tremenhere, looking up, surprised at his tone; "but I do not think you quite understand me, by your tone. I have been in the humble house of the toiling woman and mother--of the one I lured from every luxury, to cast, with a blighted name, into _want_!--want, Skaife--for this she has known! _Now_ do you comprehend my utter wretchedness? Oh, believe that there can be no sorrow, no remorse like mine! I sit here for hours searching in my memory for every tone of her voice, every look of her sweet face! I tell _you_ this, for self-abasement; _you_, at least shall know me as I am, though to the world I may be a mystery--to some, a monster!" "From my soul I pity you, Tremenhere; but oh! I rejoice that her memory is now so sacred in your eyes from stain." "Sacred and pure as an angel's, Skaife! Yet what can that avail now?"