"These sittings have been a source of so much pleasure to me," continued Sprague thoughtfully, "that I have selfishly overlooked the fact that they could only be an annoyance and a bore to you. I fear I have needlessly prolonged them." "But indeed, Mr. Sprague, I assure you it has been anything but a bore to me to pose. I am sure I shall miss the pleasant morning hours I have spent here." "They have been the happiest hours of my life," said Sprague earnestly in a low voice, "and now they are nearly gone----forever." Agnes started slightly, blushed, and riveted her gaze upon the dainty white hands which lay clasped together in her lap. Her bosom rose and fell in quickened undulations. "Why forever, Mr. Sprague?" she asked softly; "do you think of leaving New York?" "No," he replied quickly; "it is you who are about to desert this studio, which for a short time has been brightened by your presence----" "Well," interrupted Agnes, "since you are not going to leave New York, I hope you will continue to call on us." "I suppose I shall continue to call on your reception days, if that is what you mean," said Sprague somewhat disconsolately. "Now that," laughed Agnes, "is not in line with the polite things you have been saying." "I did not mean to say anything rude, Miss Murdock, but a call on your reception day is a call on your guests. Surrounded as you are on such occasions, one has barely a chance to catch a glimpse of you, much less to speak with you." "We are always glad to see our friends at other times than on our reception days." "Do you really mean it?" asked the artist eagerly. "May I call on you sometimes when the crowd is not there?" "We shall be happy to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague." Sprague thought he detected a slight emphasis on the pronoun. "But it is not _we_ I wish to call on. It is _you_, Miss Murdock." Once more the young girl's expressive eyes fixed their gaze upon the delicate hands in her lap, and once more there was a scarcely perceptible flutter beneath the lace which lay upon her white throat. The artist sat with intent eyes fixed upon her. "Of course I shall be pleased to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague," she said after a brief instant. What more could any sane man expect a modest girl to say? It is not so much the words spoken as the manner of their utterance that conveys meaning. But it is a truism that a lover is not a sane man. Sprague was not yet satisfied. He was about to speak again, when a knock sounded upon the door. It was the hall-boy with a letter. "Miss Murdock?" he inquired, glancing in the direction of the young girl. "For me?" exclaimed Agnes, surprised. "Yes, Miss; a gentleman left it for you." Agnes took the letter, inspected it curiously for an instant; then, excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the note which it contained.