"Yes; you'll get your invitations sometime or other. Good night all." "Oh, don't break good company," Rangely remonstrated. "I have half a bottle here, and I do hate an alcoholic soliloquy." But the movement for departure was general, and in a few moments more the members of the company were wending their individual ways homeward through the pelting rain. III. THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT. Othello; iv.--i. The sun shone brightly in at the windows of a little bare studio next morning, as if to atone for the gloom of the darkness and storm of the night. The Midas touch of its rays fell upon the hair of Helen Greyson, turning its wavy locks into gold as she softly sang over her modeling. She seemed to find in her work a joy which accorded well with the bright day. Pinned to the wall was an improved sketch of the bas-relief whose design had attracted Fenton's notice in her portfolio, while before the artist stood a copy in clay, upon which she was working with those mysterious touches which to the uninitiated are mere meaningless dabs, yet under which the figures were growing into sightliness and beauty. Suddenly her song was interrupted by the sound of footsteps without, followed by a tap upon her door. "Come," she called; and Grant Herman entered in response to the invitation. He carried in his arms a large vase, about whose sides green and golden dragons coiled themselves in fantastic relief. "Your vase came from the kiln," he said, "and I knew you would want to see it at once. It is the most successful firing they have done here." "Oh, I am so glad," she returned, laying down her modeling tools, and approaching him eagerly. "I was sure there wouldn't be a head or a tail left by the time the poor monsters came out of the fiery furnace. What a splendid color that back is! And that golden fin is gorgeous." "Yes, Mrs. Greyson," Herman said, "you have produced a veritable dragon's brood this time. I can almost hear them hiss." "Do you know," she responded, smoothing the glittering shapes with half chary touches. "I should not be wholly willing to have the vase in my room at night. They might, you know, come to life and go gliding about in a ghastly way." "I always wondered," the sculptor observed, "that Eve had the courage to talk with the serpent. Do you suppose she squealed when she saw him?" "Oh, no, she probably divined that mischief was brewing, and that contented her." Herman had set the vase where all its gorgeous hues were brought out by the sun, which sparkled and danced upon every spine and scale of the writhing monsters. He walked away from it to observe the effect at a greater distance. "There is no pleasure like that of creating," he said. "Man is a god when he can look on his work and pronounce it good." "Which is seldom," she returned, "unless in the one instant after its completion when we still see what we intended rather than what we have made."