“Now, haven't I given you my word? What you afraid of? The sittings, of course, will be had at her residence, not in your studio.” “Oh, of course. Just as she chooses about that. Is--is she an actress?” “An actress!” The old man laughed. “Bless you, no! What put that idea into your head?” “Oh, I don't know. I thought she might be. But her name--you haven't told me her name.” “Her name--Excuse me a minute,” said Redwood. He stepped to the door, stuck his head into the hall, and called at the top of his voice, “_Chris.... tine!_” “Yes.” The word tinkled musically in the distance. “Come down here to the parlor, will ye?” “Yes, father.” Elias's pulse bounded. Did he indeed recognize the voice? What a ninny he had been making of himself! How inordinately dense, not to have guessed their relationship from old Redwood's assurance in answering for her. He felt awkward and embarrassed; and yet he felt a certain excitement that was not at all unpleasant. “Mr. Bacharach, permit me to make you acquainted with my daughter, Miss Christine Redwood,” said the old man. Elias bowed, but dared not look at her to whom he bowed. He heard her bid him a silvery good-evening. Then he stole a side glance. Yes, it was she, she of the golden locks. “Ha-ha-ha!” roared old Redwood. “Quite a surprise, eh, Mr. Bacharach?” “A--a delightful one, I'm sure,” stammered Elias. “Well, now, then, sit down, sit down, both of you,” the old man rattled on. “That's right. There, now we can proceed to business. Chris, Mr. Bacharach here, an old customer of mine, is a painter, an artist--with an especial eye to fine bits of coloring, hey, Mr. Bacharach?” “Oh,” Christine responded softly, her eyes brightening, and the pale rose tint deepening a little in her cheeks; “are you the Mr. Bacharach who painted that beautiful picture of Sister Helen at the last exhibition?” “It's very kind of you to call it beautiful,” said Elias, immensely surprised and flattered to find himself thus recognized by his work; especially flattered, because he spoke sincerely when he added, “I myself was discouraged about it. It's so entirely inadequate to the poem, you know.” “Why, it didn't seem so to me. On the contrary I never quite appreciated the poem till I saw your picture--never quite felt all the terror of it. I think you made it wonderfully vivid. I remember how she bent over the fire, and how fierce her eyes were, and how her hair streamed down her breast and shoulders; and then, the great, dark room, and the balcony, and the moonlight outside! Oh, I liked the picture--I can't tell you how much.” “Well,” broke in old Redwood, “you two seem to be old friends. I don't see as there was much use of my introducing you. But what I should like to know is, who was it a picture of? Whose Sister Helen?” “Why, Rossetti's,” explained Christine, laughing. “The heroine of one of Rossetti's poems.” “Oh, so,” said the old man, with an inflection of disappointment.