You saw some of the race at Bettys-y-Coed, in Wales, you know, Senior Mammon, when you were “doing” the neighbourhood of Snowdon. Poor devils! you remember how they were roaming about the rivers and rocks, and painting beneath umbrella tents. And you saw how some of them were content to live in those little cottages, and how they trudged about in the hot sun on foot, with their colour-boxes and things strapped to their backs. Don’t you remember saying to Signora Mammon that it was a pity the strapping fellows you meet at the Conway Falls are not better occupied than in sketching stones and trees. You buy the artist’s pictures sometimes, to keep him from starving, because you are charitably disposed,--eh, Senior Mammon? And to obtain for yourself a character for taste, as that sort of thing is necessary in polite circles,--eh, dear friend? “But they are poor devils, after all,” you say; and “an artist in love with Christopher Tallant’s daughter must be an idiot indeed.” It is a pity Mr. Tallant is not informed of the tutor’s infernal presumption, you say. He would soon send him to the right-about, he’s such a proud fellow, you know, that Tallant. “In love!” you repeat. “In rubbish! He should come with me, and air his little bit of brains on the Stock Exchange; he should know what it is to make a hundred thousand pounds in a week, and lose it in a day; he should see what women are, how they sell themselves body and soul for money.” There, friend Mammon, you need say no more. Arthur Phillips does not understand you, and if he did, he would continue in love with Miss Tallant just the same. Strange, it must be to love a woman with all your heart and soul, and let her live on, unconscious of your admiration; to be with her, to listen to her sweet soft voice, to assist in the development of her taste, to minister to her fancy, to cultivate her love of the beautiful; and yet not dare to confess your love! The river flowed on its way, and the sun went down behind the hills; the tones of the evening bell echoed through the college yard; and long after the heir of the Verners had left his friend, the artist sat smoking his cigar in the twilight, thinking of Phœbe Tallant--thinking of her as he might think of some beautiful vision of the poet--thinking of her with a love in his heart that was more than love. And yet she seemed a necessity in his life, something that made life worth living for--something next to his art. He was quite alone in the world; he had neither mother nor father. He had been brought up in a quiet, humble way, and his father and mother both died before their son had achieved success as an artist.