"Yes," he said. "Our friend Fenton once said that there is in this world only one good, into which all others resolve themselves--the amelioration of life. The reminder, with all its suggestiveness, was too poignant; I ameliorated my life by putting it up here out of sight." She did not question him further, but, gathering up her dress, turned and went down the next flight of stairs, which brought her to a landing eight or ten feet from the floor of the studio. There she turned again and looked back at him descending. She almost seemed to herself not to speak, yet by some inward volition her lips formed the words: "Hope is only a bubble, yet it rims with rainbows whatever we see mirrored in it." "Yes?" he returned, inquiringly. "I was only thinking," replied she, continuing her descent, "that it is worth some pains to keep the bubble unbroken as long as possible." "But facts are such achromatic glasses." To this she made no answer, and together they moved towards a modeling stand upon which stood something covered with wet cloths. These the sculptor carefully removed. A perfectly nude male figure was disclosed, exquisitely modeled, and of superb proportions. It lay upon a hillock, about which fragments of broken weapons and the torn ground indicated a recent battle. The head and limbs of the figure drooped down the sides of the mound, falling with the limpness of death. About the noble, lifeless head were bent and broken stalks of poppies, ridden down by the horses, yet not wholly destroyed. Herman and Mrs. Greyson stood in silence looking at the figure, the pathos of the work so penetrating Helen that the tears gathered in her eyes. "What do you call it?" she asked, struggling to regain composure. Her companion pulled away the cloth, which still lay against the pedestal, and she saw the words: "I strew these opiate flowers Round thy restless pillow." Again she was silent. Perplexity, regret, and, more keenly than all, a delicious exultation, overcame her. She stole a half-glance up into the face of the tall form beside her. "But he is dead," she murmured at length. "It seems so," he assented. She turned and faced him, a sudden paleness making her very lips white. "I have no right to let you show me this," she cried, in a voice thrilling with emotion. "My husband is alive. I never pretended to love him, but I am his wife. You must have seen him with Arthur Fenton--Dr. Ashton." "Dr. Ashton!" he echoed, in bewilderment. "Your husband? Dr. Ashton, Teuton's friend?" "Yes," replied she, her eyes falling, and her breast beginning to heave. "I had promised not to tell; but it was not right. I should have told you, but I could not bear--Oh," she cried, breaking off her sentence abruptly, "if you despise me it is only my due!" "Despise you! As if it were possible! But don't you know? Haven't you been told?" "Know? Been told?" demanded Helen, in alarm. "What is it?" "Haven't you seen the morning paper, even?"