Ah, how much had passed away since she stood at that western window, not an hour before. All life seemed readjusted; its outlook altered; its perspective changed. Truly Garth had "gone behind his blindness." Jane raised her eyes to the blue; and a smile of unspeakable anticipation parted her lips. "Life, that shall endless be," she murmured. Then, turning, found the little bear, and restored him to his place upon the mantelpiece; put back the chair; closed the western window; and, picking up the two canvases, left the studio, and made her way carefully downstairs. CHAPTER XXX "THE LADY PORTRAYED" "It has taken you long, Miss Gray. I nearly sent Simpson up, to find out what had happened." "I am glad you did not do that, Mr. Dalmain. Simpson would have found me weeping on the studio floor; and to ask his assistance under those circumstances, would have been more humbling than inquiring after the fly in the soup!" Garth turned quickly in his chair. The artist-ear had caught the tone which meant comprehension of his work. "Weeping!" he said. "Why?" "Because," answered Nurse Rosemary, "I have been entranced. These pictures are so exquisite. They stir one's deepest depths. And yet they are so pathetic--ah, SO pathetic; because you have made a plain woman, beautiful." Garth rose to his feet, and turned upon her a face which would have blazed, had it not been sightless. "A WHAT?" he exclaimed. "A plain woman," repeated Nurse Rosemary, quietly. "Surely you realised your model to be that. And therein lies the wonder of the pictures. You have so beautified her by wifehood, and glorified her by motherhood, that the longer one looks the more one forgets her plainness; seeing her as loving and loved; lovable, and therefore lovely. It is a triumph of art." Garth sat down, his hands clasped before him. "It is a triumph of truth," he said. "I painted what I saw." "You painted her soul," said Nurse Rosemary, "and it illuminated her plain face." "I SAW her soul," said Garth, almost in a whisper; "and that vision was so radiant that it illumined my dark life. The remembrance lightens my darkness, even now." A very tender silence fell in the library. The twilight deepened. Then Nurse Rosemary spoke, very low. "Mr. Dalmain, I have a request to make of you. I want to beg you not to destroy these pictures." Garth lifted his head. "I must destroy them, child," he said. "I cannot risk their being seen by people who would recognise my--the--the lady portrayed." "At all events, there is one person who must see them, before they are destroyed." "And that is?" queried Garth. "The lady portrayed," said Nurse Rosemary, bravely. "How do you know she has not seen them?" "Has she?" inquired Nurse Rosemary. "No," said Garth, shortly; "and she never will." "She must." Something in the tone of quiet insistence struck Garth. "Why?" he asked; and listened with interest for the answer.