‘Come with me,’ cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking.  ’My sister is also an artist:  she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young.  She is so kind and so fond of me that I am very sure she will not refuse.’

The two boys traversed the Avenue de l’Observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other.  When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l’Ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth storey of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him.  He tapped gaily at a little door, which a young servant opened:  he passed through the antechamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of Emily d’Orbe, the sister of Jules.

She appeared to be about twenty-five:  she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability.  Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind a l’antique:  but she wore no ribbon, no ornament—­nothing but what was necessary.  The furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple:  a little divan, some chairs and two arm-chairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the ‘Spasimo di Sicilia’ and the ‘Three Maries,’ alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing Anna Boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution.

When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as she returned to her easel:  ’Now, my dear child, let me go on with my painting;’ not, however, without addressing a friendly ‘Good-morning’ to Henry, who she thought had come to play with Jules.

Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request.  He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word ‘impossible!’ and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand and drew him towards Emily.  ‘Sister,’ he said, ’I have brought my friend Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him.’

‘Jules,’ she replied, ’let me paint; you know I have very little time.  You are playing the spoiled child:  you abuse my indulgence.’

’Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry.  If you knew how unhappy he is!’