"My darling--my darling," he murmured, "we will leave this smoky, dingy city; I will take you to a beautiful land where the flowers never fade and the air is forever filled with their fragrance. Where the blue skies of an eternal summer are above us, and the blue waves of a whispering sea shall lull us to peace. There is a tiny island in the Mediterranean on the coast of France. I was there once; it is like heaven. I will take you there. Say that you will go, sweetheart; we will start to-day." The girl lifted her face to his, and kissed him on the forehead. "It would be heaven, indeed, Julian; but--we must wait." The artist started and grew pale. Her final words had been the same as those used by Evelin March. She did not seem to notice his emotion, or mistook its cause. "You know that I love you, Julian," she continued, "and I will do anything for your happiness; but--oh, Julian"-- She burst into tears and hid her face on his shoulder. He felt that some mystery of grief weighed upon her, and he longed to urge her confidence, but refrained. He soothed her gently with tender words and caresses. By and by she grew calm. "Julian," she said, "I am in no condition to-day to give you a sitting. I will come to-morrow, and then--I will give you a final answer, and--oh, my love, do not urge me further to-day; I--I cannot endure it." Then suddenly throwing her arms about his neck she pressed one fierce kiss upon his lips and hurried from the room. After she was gone the artist walked up and down the studio for a long time in deep thought. He was wildly happy in her love, and yet he was troubled. It was strange that her words should have been the same as those of Evelin March. Her manner, too, during the last moment had been unusual. Something about it had jarred him--almost reminded him of the other woman. What was it between these two? By and by, he noticed something white lying on the floor. It was a woman's handkerchief--a bit of cambric and lace exhaling the delicate odor of violets. He pressed it to his lips repeatedly, and whispered her name over and over, then hid it away in his bosom. He had not noticed, in the dim light, that in one corner, in small, delicate letters, were the initials, E. M. D. VI. The next morning was bright and crisp, and the artist felt better than he had for many weeks. He arose happy in the thought that he should again see Eva Delorme so soon, and in the confidence that she would accept his offer of marriage. He was happier still in the prospect of cutting free from all the feverish torture of the past few months; of leaving behind all the unpleasant associations that clouded both their lives, along with the soot, and fumes, and temptations of this grimy city; and of dreaming away the winter with Eva on the coast of France.