The longer she remained with White the more she became impressed with the painful change that had taken place in Madeline. It was not that the child had become a woman, and had learnt to subdue her spirits to a sadder, more womanly tone; her soul was haunted by a memory which poisoned every pleasure which was lifted to her lips, and converted the world into a tomb. What the memory was, Madame could not understand, but she knew, whenever the girl’s prospects seemed brightest, it haunted her the most, and that on that night when she had shone forth upon the world, and made hundreds envy her, it seemed to loom before her eyes more terribly than ever. For several days after that night when she had achieved her great theatrical triumph, Madeline was too much occupied with business to give much thought to herself. She seemed to be lifted on a whirlwind, and carried along in tumult--forgetting the past, thinking nothing of the future, and scarcely conscious even of the bewildering present. On the third morning, however, a note arrived which dispelled the dream that enveloped her, and brought her to herself again. The note had been placed among many others upon the breakfast table. She looked twice or thrice at the handwriting, then opened the envelope, and read as follows-- _My dear Ophelia,--For the last few days I have been looking every hour, nay, every minute, for a visit from you. Am I to be again honoured by a visit from you in my studio, or may I take the liberty of waiting upon you? I have been putting one or two finishing touches to my work, but without the presence of the original I cannot bring it to completion. Accept my friendly homage, which must be to you like a drop of water to the ocean._ _Blanco Serena._ Having perused the note, Madeline laid it down again upon the table and looked round the room. How poverty-stricken it looked; how opposed to everything in the house of the successful painter who wrote that letter! She turned to White, who sat near her with his head buried in the folds of the ‘Times.’ ‘Mr. Serena thinks that success has turned my head,’ she said quietly. ‘I must undeceive him by giving him my last sitting for “Ophelia” to-day.’ Accordingly, as soon as the breakfast was over, White retired to his studio, and Madeline went on her way. On arriving at the house of Mr. Blanco Serena, she was made to feel her new greatness more than ever she had done before. The servant in livery looked at her with unusual respect, as he led her solemnly through long corridors to the studio, and ushered her into the presence of the great man himself.