The shock left its mark upon him. Physically it accomplished the work of ten years, wiping the youth from his face and setting in its stead the seal of middle age. It is common enough for grief or illness to lay its hand on the face of a woman no longer young and shrivel up her beauty like a leaf and set her free, old and withered. But with a man, who has no such beauty to be marred, the case is rare. For a week he remained silent. The two women who loved him waited in patience until the time should come for their comforting to be of use. From the very first morning he let no change appear in his habits, but set his palette as usual and went on with the new picture that was nearing completion. In the afternoon he went for a walk. Aline, going down to the studio, happened to look at his morning's work. For a moment she was puzzled by what she saw, for she was familiar with his methods. Gradually the solution dawned upon her. He had been painting meaninglessly, incoherently, putting in splotches of colour that had no relation to the tone of the picture, crudely accentuating outlines, daubing here, there, and anywhere with an aimless brush. It was the work of a child or a drunken man. Aline cast herself on the model-platform and cried till she could cry no more. When he came back, he took a turpentine rag and obliterated the whole picture. For days he worked incessantly, trying in vain to repaint. Nothing would come right. The elementary technique of his art seemed to have left him. Aline strove to get him away. He resisted. He had to do his day's work, he said. “But you're not well, dear,” she urged. “You will kill yourself if you go on like this.” “I've never heard of work killing a man,” he answered. Then after a pause, “No. It's not work that kills.” At last the sleep that had failed him returned, and he awoke one morning free from the daze in the brain against which he had been obstinately struggling. He rose and faced the world again with clear eyes. When Aline entered the studio to summon him to lunch, she found him painting at the unhappy picture with his accustomed sureness of touch. He leaned back and surveyed his handiwork. “It's going to be magnificent, is n't it? What a blessing I wiped out the first attempt!” “Yes, this is ever so much better, Jimmie,” the girl replied, with tears very near her eyes. But her heart swelled with happy relief. The aching strain of the past week was over. She had dreaded break-down, illness, and permanent paralysis of his faculties. The man she knew and loved had seemed to be dead and his place taken by a vacant-eyed simulacrum. Now he had come to life again, and his first words sounded the eternal chord of hope and faith.