He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissed it and turned it upon its face.  When he had seen them all he sat for a moment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces; and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air.  The wind whirled them over the street.

“Oh, what a pretty snow-storm!” said the little street children, looking up.

Then Arthur Merlin turned to his great easel, upon which stood the canvas of the picture of Diana and Endymion.  Through the parted clouds the face of the Queen and huntress—­the face of Hope Wayne—­looked tenderly upon the sleeping figure of the shepherd on the bare top of the grassy hill—­the face and figure of Lawrence Newt.

The painter took his brushes and his pallet, and his maulstick.  He paused for some time again, as he stood before the easel, then he went quietly to work.  He touched it here and there.  He stepped back to mark the effect—­rubbed with his finger—­sighed—­stepped back—­and still worked on.  The hours glided away, and daylight began to fade, but not until he had finished his work.

Then he scraped his pallet and washed his brushes, and seated himself upon the sofa opposite the easel.  There was no picture, of Diana or of Endymion any longer.  In the place of Diana there was a full summer moon shining calmly in a cloudless heaven.  Its benignant light fell upon a solitary grave upon a hill-top, which filled the spot where Endymion had lain.

Arthur Merlin sat in the corner of the sofa with folded arms, looking at the picture, until the darkness entirely hid it from view.

CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE LAST THROW.

While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter, Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne’s parlor.  His hair was thinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull.  His hands had that dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses.  The hand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret magic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy that stood in the parlor of Pinewood—­how many thousand years ago?

He heard a step, and turned.

Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringly at him.  She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hair clustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face—­the rose of health.

“Did you wish to say something to me?” she asked, observing that Abel merely stared at her stupidly.

He bowed his head in assent.

“What do you wish to say?”

Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit.

Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception.  But he moved toward her, and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity.