"I feared," uttered the other, "that--I scarcely know how to speak my thought--that, in short, you might be--were, dazzled by Lady Dora Vaughan!" "By her!" and he laughed in derision. "Have you, too, known the human heart so ill, to suppose that, having once loved Minnie, even though unjust, cruel, her murderer, I could ever place another, and such a one as Lady Dora, near her? No, no; be my feelings what they may, I never will dream even of so vain a thing as alleviating them by any union; still less with Lady Dora, than another!" "I have, nevertheless, heard strange rumours." "Have you? well, 'tis well. I would have it thus; 'tis----" He paused. "Let us change the subject," he said hastily; "time will prove all of us." They were silent some moments. "Do you know what grieves me most in this my task?" He pointed to the picture. "I cannot find in my mind a thought of what _our_ child was like. I would I could thus complete my subject. But all is a blank!" He pointed to the infant, of which there was but an outline; indeed, all but the Madonna's face was this only, for he had not long commenced the picture, which had been one ordered some time previously. A sudden thought struck Skaife. "I was visiting in a house, yesterday," he said, "and there was struck by the unearthly beauty of a boy I saw in the arms of the _concièrge_. I asked to whom it belonged, and was told, to a poor woman residing in the house. I make no doubt I could induce them to bring the child to you--it is the loveliest I ever saw." "Thank you, Skaife," he answered sadly; "but I do not think _any_ child could give me the faintest idea of what hers must have been; it must have had a look of more than mortal sorrow on its young face, born in so much woe and care. I will try and dream what it could have been; nothing living can even pourtray it."