There were groups, larger or smaller, before many of the canvases; and in one of these groups, standing a little apart from the rest, were Harold and Martha Keene. The picture before which they had paused was a rather small canvas on which was painted a woman leaning with her elbows on a table, and her chin resting in her hands, which met at the wrists, and then closed upon the cheeks at either side. The little table before her was perfectly bare. There was a striking absence of detail. The one thing which was accentuated by careful and distinct painting was a plain gold ring on the third finger of the left hand. The loose drapery which wrapped the shoulders, leaving bare the throat and arms, was simply blocked in with creamy white paint and heavy shadows. The hair was gathered in a thick coil at the top of the head. There was beauty in its coloring, and merit also in the flesh-tints of the face and throat; but the power of the picture was in the eyes, which looked directly at one. The brows above them were smooth, definite, and uncontracted. The lines of the face were youthful and round. The lips were firm and self-controlled. All the expression was left to the eyes, which, large, honest, courageous, and truthful, met those of the gazer, and gave their message--the message of despair. “It is called in the catalogue simply ‘A Study,’” said a man standing close to Harold Keene; “and certainly there is no need to name it. The artist’s name is given as ‘G. Larrien.’ Does any one happen to know it?” No one did, and the group of people soon passed on; but Harold stayed and looked. Martha, who stood at his elbow, was palpitating with excitement. She knew the picture and the artist, but she was determined not to betray, even by a look, the secret which she had promised her friend to keep. She saw that Harold studied the picture with intent interest, and she schooled her face to express nothing, in case he should look at her. She was watching him closely, and she thought that his color changed a little, but he gave no other sign of feeling. He did not look toward her. Indeed, there was neither question nor curiosity in his eyes, but a look of conviction and, she thought, a look of pain. A man and woman had paused beside them now, and stood gazing at the picture. “It’s quite a remarkable thing,” said the man; “and it appears to be by a new exhibitor. I do not know the name. It certainly tells its story.” “Yes,” said his companion; “I believe that it is only through marriage that despair comes to a woman. If one painted that look in a man’s eyes, one would have to invent some better explanation of it than a wedding-ring.” Harold glanced toward the speakers, and then began to move away, without looking again at the picture. Martha waited to hear what he would say; but as to this particular picture, he said nothing.