He remembered the "blue devils" of the day before, and found it difficult to account for them. He was in love, certainly. But that in itself did not furnish a sufficient reason for despondency. It was rumored that the object of his affections was on the eve of betrothal to another. But what dependence can be placed upon a public rumor? As a matter of fact, Miss Murdock wore no rings; in the absence of the badge of the betrothed woman, was he not justified in believing her fancy free? In that case, there was a fair field and no favor. Why should not he have as good a chance of winning the prize as another man? No man, of course, was worthy of Agnes Murdock. That was the fundamental axiom. But in love success does not perch only upon the banner of the worthy. If it did, the human race would soon become extinct. So the young man's thoughts ran on, while hope once more found a resting place in his heart. Miss Murdock was not to pose again, but Sprague was eager to work on the portrait. He was about to step into the studio after breakfast, when the housekeeper announced a call from his lawyer, who wished to consult him about some important matters. The entire morning was thus consumed in necessary but tedious business, and it was not until after luncheon that the artist was at last free to set to work. Uncovering the portrait, he stood off to examine it. As he did so, something white upon the floor caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up. It was a letter in a beautifully regular masculine hand. Mechanically he turned it over and unfolded it. His eyes carelessly swept the written page; then in a flash he realized what it was, and he flung it violently from him. Only a few words had left their impress upon his retina--a few scattered words and a signature. But these were branded deep upon his brain for all time, in letters of fire which burned their way to his very soul. For he had recognized the letter which had been delivered by the messenger to Miss Murdock the day before, and he had seen enough to know that it was couched in words of passionate love. In that instant was quenched the last ray of hope which had lurked within his heart. Overwhelmed with a sense of utter desolation, he sank back upon a divan; and for a long time remained lost in bitter reflections. But Sprague, in spite of his dilettanteism, was a man of grit when occasion called for it. Summoning at length his fortitude and his pride, he proceeded to carry out what he conceived to be the duty of a gentleman under the circumstances. Picking up the letter again, he placed it unread in an envelope, into which he slipped his card, with a brief explanation of the finding of the paper. Then, after addressing the envelope, he started out to mail it himself.