He had been over-working, and for what? That the picture for which he had sacrificed so much, should be seen one brief hour by a dozen men! He now felt in what a strained condition his nerves had been. The picture was gone, and with it the strong excitement which had kept him alive and alert. The tension was relaxed, and an intense depression had followed, which was in turn losing itself in a new feeling. A lonely longing, a craving for a tender womanly sympathy, for the only human being who had never misunderstood his many moods, who was always in sympathy with him in joy or sorrow. She alone in all the world could have helped him at this time; to her he could have confided all those delicate shades of thought which drifted through his mind, too fragile ever to be prisoned in words. She could have divined those half-formed ideas and crystallized them into steadfast utterances. He was cold, bitterly cold, and suffered for that loving human sympathy as the parched hillsides had but now longed for the refreshing rain which had made the earth green and fair after the long summer drought. He had chosen Art for his mistress, and she had smiled upon him chastely and coolly; and yet he was not content. Barbara left the piano, and Graham joined her. The over-punctilious courtesy with which he had always treated her was forgotten. He spoke suddenly and sharply:-- "What did you mean by what you said to me,--why am I too late?" "I meant too late for a draught from the loving-cup." "You meant more than that." "If you choose to fancy--" "I cannot but choose to _know_." By this time the gay group from the dining-room had flooded the library with their ringing voices, their merry faces. Only these two were pale and out of harmony with the scene. Barbara, with downcast eyes, stood by the piano, tapping her fingers nervously on the polished case. "I have interrupted your festivity; I have been a very skeleton at the feast; forgive me,--I could not help coming,--forgive me and answer me one question, and I will go and leave you in peace." "I say, Bab, we are going into the drawing-room to tell ghost stories. O’Neil has a splendid one,--a real Irish family banshee yarn. Come on, you and Graham." "In a moment, Hal, don’t wait for us; we will join you before you are all settled and Mr. O’Neil has begun." The library was again empty. The voices of the holiday folk reached their ears across the hall. "Tell me what you have heard from her." There was no need of speaking her name. Her face looked at them from its place over the mantel-shelf,--a quick, strong sketch made by Graham. From a leafy background white shoulders, and a fair face with deep eyes, were shadowed forth. The firelight, falling restlessly upon the picture, touched into light now the full red mouth, now the ivory throat. "I have not heard for some time. She was in Venice again, very ill from the long journey, when she last wrote." "You have not heard since?" "No."