His eyes sparkled, and a proud smile curled his lips.

“Do I offer sacrifices?”

“I think you would, if they were required.”

“Suppose my stone god demanded my heart?”

“Ah, sir! you know you gave it to him long ago.”

He laughed quite genially, and his whole face softened, warmed.

“At least let us hope my ambition is not sordid; is unstained with the dross of avarice.  It is a stern god, and I shall not deny that ‘Ephraim is joined to his idols!  Let him alone.’”

A short silence followed, during which his thoughts wandered far from the precincts of that quiet room.

“Mr. Palma, will you please give me my picture?”

“It is yours of course, but conditionally.  It must remain where it now hangs:  first, because I wish it; secondly, because your mother prefers (for good reasons) that it should not be known just yet as her portrait; and if it should be removed to your bed-chamber, the members of the household would probably gossip.  Remaining here, it will be called an imitation of ‘Mona Lisa del Giocondo,’ and none will ever suspect the truth.  Pray don’t straiten your lips in that grievously defiant fashion, as Perpetua doubtless did when she heard the bellowing of beasts or the clash of steel in the amphitheatre.  Make this room your favourite retreat.  Now that it contains your painted Penates, convert it into an atrium.  Come when you may, you will never disturb me.  In a long letter received this week, your mother directs that your portrait shall be painted in a certain position, and wishes you to wear the suit you have on.  The carriage is ready, and I will take you at once to the artist.  Put on your hat.”

During the drive he was abstracted, now and then consulting a paper of memoranda, carried in the inside breast-pocket of his coat.

Once introduced into the elegant studio of Mr. Harcourt in Tenth Street, Regina found much to interest and charm her, while her guardian arranged the preliminaries, and settled the details of the picture.  Then he removed the hat and cloak, and placed her in the comfortable seat already prepared.

The artist went into an adjoining room, and a moment after Hero bounded in, expressing by a succession of barks his almost frantic delight at the reunion with his mistress.  Since her removal to New York, she saw him so rarely, that the pleasure was mingled with pain, and now with her arms around his neck, and her face hidden in his thick white hair, she cried softly, unable to keep back the tears.

“Come, Regina, sit up.  Make Hero lie on that pile of cushions, which will enable you to rest one hand easily on his head.  Crying!  Mr. Harcourt paints no such weeping demoiselles.  Dry your eyes, and take down your hair.  Your mother wishes it flowing, as when she saw you last.”

While she unbraided the thick coil, and shook out the shining folds, trying to adjust them smoothly, the lawyer stood patiently beside her; and once his soft white hand rested on her forehead, as he stroked back a rippling tress that encroached upon her temple.