"Because of all it would mean to a woman who knows herself plain, to see herself thus beautified." Garth sat very still for a few moments. Then: "A woman who--knows--herself--plain?" he repeated, with interrogative amazement in his voice. "Yes," proceeded Nurse Rosemary, encouraged. "Do you suppose, for a moment, that that lady's mirror has ever shown her a reflection in any way approaching what you have made her in these pictures? When we stand before our looking-glasses, Mr. Dalmain, scowling anxiously at hats and bows, and partings, we usually look our very worst; and that lady, at her very worst, would be of a most discouraging plainness." Garth sat perfectly silent. "Depend upon it," continued Nurse Rosemary, "she never sees herself as 'The Wife'--'The Mother.' Is she a wife?". Garth hesitated only the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said, very quietly. Jane's hands flew to her breast. Her heart must be held down, or he would hear it throbbing. Nurse Rosemary's voice had in it only a slight tremor, when she spoke again. "Is she a mother?" "No," said Garth. "I painted what might have been." "If--?" "If it HAD been," replied Garth, curtly. Nurse Rosemary felt rebuked. "Dear Mr. Dalmain," she said, humbly; "I realise how officious I must seem to you, with all these questions, and suggestions. But you must blame the hold these wonderful paintings of yours have taken on my mind. Oh, they are beautiful--beautiful!" "Ah," said Garth, the keen pleasure of the artist springing up once more. "Miss Gray, I have somewhat forgotten them. Have you them here? That is right. Put them up before you, and describe them to me. Let me hear how they struck you, as pictures." Jane rose, and went to the window. She threw it open; and as she breathed in the fresh air, breathed out a passionate prayer that her nerve, her voice, her self-control might not fail her, in this critical hour. She herself had been convicted by Garth's pictures. Now she must convince Garth, by her description of them. He must be made to believe in the love he had depicted. Then Nurse Rosemary sat down; and, in the gentle, unemotional voice, which was quite her own, described to the eager ears of the blind artist, exactly what Jane had seen in the studio. It was perfectly done. It was mercilessly done. All the desperate, hopeless, hunger for Jane, awoke in Garth; the maddening knowledge that she had been his, and yet not his; that, had he pressed for her answer that evening, it could not have been a refusal; that the cold calculations of later hours, had no place in those moments of ecstasy. Yet--he lost her--lost her! Why? Ah, why? Was there any possible reason other than the one she gave? Nurse Rosemary's quiet voice went on, regardless of his writhings. But she was drawing to a close. "And it is such a beautiful crimson rambler, Mr. Dalmain," she said. "I like the idea of its being small and in bud, in the first picture; and blooming in full glory, in the second."