Standing immediately behind her, Dr. Grey saw that she had seized the weird "_Vision of Virgins_," and was putting into pigment that solemn phantasm of the poet's imagination where five radiant women were passing to their reward,--and five wailing over flickering, dying lamps, were huddled helplessly and hopelessly under a black and starless midnight sky. Although unfinished, there was marvellous power in the picture, and the sickly gleam from the expiring wicks made the surrounding gloom more supernatural, like the deep shadows skulking behind the lurid glare in some old Flemish painting. He saw also that she had followed the general outline of the poem; but one of the faces was so supreme in its mute anguish that he thought of Reni's "Cenci," and of a wan "Alcestis," and a desperate "Cassandra," he had seen at Rome; and, in comparison, the description of the poet seemed almost vapid,-- ... "One as still as death Hollowed her hands about her lamp, for fear Some motion of the midnight, or her breath, Should fan out the last flicker. Rosy clear The light oozed through her fingers o'er her face. There was a ruined beauty hovering there Over deep pain, and dashed with lurid grace A waning bloom." The room with its costly, quaint, and tasteful furniture,--the solitary and singularly beautiful woman; the wonderful picture, growing beneath her hand; the solemn silence, broken only by the deep, hollow murmur of the dimpling sea that sent its shimmer in at the window to meet the painted shimmer in a marine view framed on the wall,--all these wove a spell about the intruder that temporarily held him a mute captive. The artist laid a delicate green on the stripped and scattered leaves from a wreath of Syrian lilies lying on the marble steps of the bridegroom's mansion, and once more she read a passage from the open book,-- ... "'Then I beheld A shadow in the doorway. And One came Crown'd for a feast. I could not see the Face. The Form was not all human. As the Flame Streamed over it, a presence took the place With awe. He, turning, took them by the hand And led them each up the wide stairway, and The door closed.'" The sound of her voice, low but clear, and burdened with a sadness that no language could exhaust or interpret, thrilled Dr. Grey's steady nerves as no music had ever done, and, stepping forward, he held out his card, and said,-- "Mrs. Gerome, a painful necessity has compelled me to intrude upon your seclusion, and I trust you will acquit me of impertinence." Rising, she fronted him with a frown severe as that which clouded Artemis' brow when profane eyes peered through myrtle boughs into her sacred retreat, and the changed voice seemed thick with bristling icicles. "Your business must be imperative, indeed, if it warrants this intrusion. What servant admitted you?"