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looking back thoughtfully as she was leaving the room, her skirts held closely round her that they might not sweep any beautifulness away with them.

"Yes, indeed," he answered; "will you have some? I shall be so glad! I am sick of them ;" and he stooped and began to gather up a quantity of roses, of stephanotis, of hothouse mignonette, till he had an armful of sweetness.

"Just a few," said Madonna, looking on with a curious smile lurking on her lips, "just a few to take to a little friend of mine, whom, with your permission, we will go to see. She will be so delighted with these sweet blossoms!"

Laden with flowers he followed her down to her carriage.

"Whom are they for?" he asked, as he took his place beside her and piled the flowers upon the opposite seat.

"Who? Can't you guess?-for little Bopeep, of course. You have seen her, haven't you?"

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Yes, I think so, once; a pretty little girl. But you know I admire fine women," he added, with a glance at Madonna, who, leaning indolently back, smiled within herself at his compliment. She was far too seasoned by admiration to think of it again in its reference to herself, but it amused her to see his ready return to his love of gallantry. A few moments since she was his friend, now she was a fine woman. She did not care to speak to him again yet awhile; she could calculate on his replies while this mood was on him. So they drove through the streets in silence.

"I suppose Miss Bopeep has plenty of lovers, though she is such a slip of a girl," remarked Mr. Litton after a pause. "Genius is enough for, some men, without beauty." Oh, but she is beautiful, if only

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Oh, because it isn't good to live on dreams altogether," said Madonna.

"And does she?"

"Yes; she goes to dreamland for her beauty, and I believe that child worships beauty even more utterly than you do. That is why I asked for these flowers for her. Now we are arrived, will you carry up some of the flowers?

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With their hands full of blossoms and fern-leaves the two left the carriage and crossed the pavement of the narrow street into which they had driven, to the open door of a not very cheerful-looking house. Up the stairs they climbed, and at the end of the second flight, seeing Madonna still patiently mounting, Mr. Litton cried for mercy, and space to draw a little breath.

"Does she live all up here ?" he said; "no wonder she sees visions if she lives so near the sky."

Madonna looked back smiling at his affected exhaustion.

"Yes," she said, "here little Bopeep and her old nurse live all by themselves in a flat just small enough to turn round in, right at the top of the house. Now, are you ready to come on ?"

With a groan Mr. Litton started afresh in her footsteps. Madonna, reaching the top of the narrow stairway, knocked at a sort of toy front door which headed the stairs. In an instant it was opened by Bopeep herself, and, as he stood

there looking at her over Madonna's shoulder, Mr. Litton understood what that lady had meant about her eyes. They were strange eyes, deep-set, and half-shut; it seemed as though the heavy lids were never fully raised, and yet, from beneath those half-closed doors the eyes had a look as if full of sight, and able to see both through and beyond anything immediately near them. Mr. Litton felt himself somewhat extinguished by the sense that this young girl looked over his shoulder instead of at him. But he did not regard these curious eyes as being at all beautiful.

'I am so glad to see you," the girl exclaimed rapidly, putting out both hands to Madonna, " and oh! what flowers!"

"My friend, Mr. Litton, has brought you these," said Madonna, moving aside for that gentleman to enter the pigmy hall and make his bow to the slender girl with the strange eyes, who had already clasped a great handful of blossoms to her breast, and seemed as though absorbed in the sheer bliss of their presence.

"I knew she would like them," said Madonna, prosaically; "do put these others down, dear Mr. Litton," and she led the way, as though she were in her own home, into a tiny sitting-room. It was a very quaint room, and at first Mr. Litton looked about him in some surprise wondering what made it so quaint, for it was furnished with an almost painful simplicity, and even scantiness. But immediately he saw what produced the curious effect: the room was lit principally by a skylight, immediately under which was a stand of ferns. The centre of a room is not generally the place in which plants thrive, and their situation here seemed odd, but yet was pretty; the only other window was a queer little projecting bow,

in which were some more plants. Under the skylight, beside the ferns, stood a music stand with an open score upon it, and a violin lay upon a chair. There were only a few other chairs, some little tables, and a few books in the room; yet there was a pretty look about it all, which reminded Mr. Litton of that artistic effect which Edgar Allan Poe was said to produce in an otherwise empty room by the disposition of one chair and a hanging bookshelf.

"Put the flowers on this table, Mr. Litton," said Madonna; "and now, Bopeep, talk to us instead of to those roses; or will you play a little?"

"I will play," said Bopeep, "I don't think I can talk except to the flowers, you have brought me such a gush of beauty."

She took up the violin, and as she took it in her hand her eyes contracted and grew dimmer, and the brightness of her face seemed to lose itself in a strange mistiness of expression. She played a wild sweet melody, which thrilled them both-even Madonna, who knew well the magic of the girl's touch. When the last quivering note had died away, she put the violin gently down, and came and sat by Madonna, with a look of deep weariness upon her face.

"I am so tired to-day," she said. "I have been practising all the morning-and it is so sweet to do it when Ariel helps me-but it leaves me tired."

"You should not do so much of it," said Madonna, with an air of reproof combined with a look of awe, which puzzled Mr. Litton very much.

"I cannot help it," said Bopeep, looking up with her strange eyes full of an unconscious pathos, " you see it is my life."

"Do you find your life in music?" asked Mr. Litton, interposing with

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"Now, Mr. Litton," she went on rapidly, as though she wanted to break the spell of dreaminess which had fallen on them all, come to the window and look at Bopeep's view. Here she can look down upon the busy throng' and moralise at her ease."

So saying, she led the way to the bow-window. There they looked out upon a scene which surprised Mr. Litton because he had not expected it. The old house in which Bopeep occupied so modest a portion looked from its back windows upon the duncoloured city river. Fortunately her little window was at the back, and being very high up it commanded a really grand city view. On one side stood Westminster, on the other St. Paul's Cathedral, and far away across the river the sun-rays sometimes caught the glass of the Crystal Palace, sometimes lit up a green patch upon the distant Surrey hills.

"I love this window," said Bopeep. "In the morning the sunlight falls on the leaden river, and illuminates it just as the sunshine

of the other world lights our souls

by revealing our dullness and darkness. Oh, it is grand to see the barges go down the dusky waters, and fancy the country places full of sweet sound and odour which these loads of hay and straw have come from. Don't you like my window?" she asked abruptly of Mr. Litton, who was indeed not looking out, but regarding her face very curiously.

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Why, yes, indeed," said he, without pausing to think for a reply; "but I like you better."

Madonna looked round amused. "Now," she said, "I am going to send you away. It is cruel, I know, but necessary. Bopeep and I have to do a little rehearsing for the new operetta; and we shall never do it while you stay."

"I should like," said Mr. Litton piteously" but no, I see a stern look in Madonna's eye. Have you not found, Miss Bopeep, that when Madonna is the actress, then she is no longer the woman, but is made of adamant ?"

"I know something of what you mean," said Bopeep, with a faint bright smile; "but I think she is right now. We want to do everything we can with this operetta, because the libretto is Mr. Maurice's. Do you know, I think that is he" (just then a knock sounded at the little front door); "he said he would perhaps come in this afternoon to hear me try some parts of the violin solo."

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Only Madonna ! That meant, not what it might seem to imply, that Madonna was little thought of, but, instead, that she was the bright particular star of this circle, and that everyone was always glad to see her. So Mr. Maurice, the proprietor of the Gem Theatre, walked into Bopeep's little sanctum, and his presence immediately produced a very curious result. Bopeep gave him a chilly little hand, froze as if he were an icemachine, took up her violin as if prepared for business, and relapsed into statuesque silence. Madonna held out her two hands with her inimitable grace, and welcomed him with a warmth which fifty men in London would have gone on their knees to obtain from her. And Maurice, standing between the two, had only eyes for the girl of marble, and scarcely knew that the woman who radiated warmth to him was in the room.

The secret of this was very simple. He had at one time admired and sympathised sufficiently with Madonna to make love to her, and had borne her rejection of his love with admirable grace. Since then they had been the best of comrades.

He was engaged to this quaint little Bopeep now; she had promised to be his wife. He was desperately, hopelessly in love with her, and his very presence turned her to a marble statue.

"Shall I try over the solo first? " asked the girl, after a few familiar words had passed between the other

two.

"If you please," said Maurice, who knew not which he preferred -to hear her play or to hear her -speak-both were music to him.

She began at once, without further preface, to play through her solo. The others sat down at some distance apart; but presently Madonna beckoned to Maurice. "Come where you can

see her face," she whispered. "Is it not wonderful ?”

And it was indeed. It grew so rapt, that the features seemed lost in a glow of light.

When at last the quivering passionate notes of the inspired instrument ceased, Bopeep then really appeared to be turned into a statue. She stood absolutely motionlesss, her eyes shut fast, her lips still, yet fixed in a half smile. And though those dim, far-seeing eyes were closed, yet there was a marvellous expression as of sight, in the closed lids.

"Go away, Maurice," said Madonna imperiously, "I will stay; but I know she will not like it if you are here when she wakes."

"Must I go?" asked Maurice, miserably.

"Yes, I am sure you must," she answered. He rose and went out of the room. From the little lobby his voice called back, "Madonna." She rose and stepped gently to the door of the room. He was waiting there, hat in hand.

"Madonna," he said, for God's sake do something for me; I can't stand this much longer. I ought not to be shut out of her life. You say she is a sibyl. I say well and good, but she is woman also, and the woman part of her liked me once. Why does she shrink from me now, and hide her eyes that she may not see me, when she returns from these ecstacies? Find out for me, if you have a friend's heart within you!

י!

"I will, Maurice," said she, very earnestly; "but why do you not question her yourself?"

"She is so frail-and so afraid of me, now, apparently-that I dread to disturb her. Will you do it for me, if you can, dear comrade mine?"

"Indeed, I will," she answered, smiling at her old pet name, which she had not heard from his lips of

late.

"Come to my dressing-room

after the opera to-night."

She drew back and closed the door, leaving Maurice to make his way out alone.

When she turned

she was surprised to find that Bopeep was looking at her with open eyes, and a little frown as of distress on her forehead. At the sound of the outer door closing upon Maurice the girl's face broke into a smile.

"I am so glad he is gone," she said.

Madonna paused, horror-struck. "Oh, don't say that!" she exclaimed; " you used to love Maurice. Tell me why it is that you so dislike him now.'

"I don't dislike him," said Bopeep, in a very low voice, which was habitual with her when strongly in earnest; "but I ought not to let him go on thinking I can marry him when I cannot."

She was very much in earnest now. Her cheeks had a dark red spot growing in the midst of their paleness. She pushed back her light, loose hair from her face with a hurried movement very unlike her usual quiet manner.

"And why can't you?" inquired Madonna, led into abruptness by her sheer amazement. Bopeep dropped her eyes, hesitated, and then said:

"Because of Ariel."

For a moment Madonna felt impatient, and a burning at the tip of her tongue. She had a great affection for Maurice, and she felt for a moment intensely impatient that this strange girl should let her dim visions come between them. But she restrained herself, and, looking again at the girl, was ashamed of her impatience.

Bopeep, standing there, silent, statuesque, still holding the violin, but one hand full of the scattered flowers which she had just taken from the table near her, and was

holding to her breast as if for comfort's sake, with the intense, rapt look in her deep eyes, her pale face made strangely brilliant by the vivid spots upon her cheeks, and her wild, soft hair thrown back on her shoulders, looked hardly like a mortal, to be judged by the ordinary laws of human nature. Madonna called to her mind the words which she herself had so often used to Maurice when he grew restive beneath Bopeep's coldness-if she was woman she was sibyl also.

"I wish," she said, changing her tack altogether, "I wish you would tell me something about Ariel. You have never told me anything except that you love him. I want so much to know more."

"What do you want to know ?" asked Bopeep; "I have told you that he is beautiful, and that I love him."

"But," persisted Madonna gently, "I want to know what he is like, and I very much want to hear how he first came to you."

"Well, I will tell you," said the girl, with a tremulous look at Madonna, as if she doubted her real desire to know. desire to know. She shrank, with the intense sensitiveness of all artistic, inspired natures, from the small vice of curiosity. But the look on Madonna's face reassured her. She put her violin tenderly aside, and then went to the mass of flowers and took yet more into her hands. She put them into her hair, upon her dress; she dropped violets within her dress, against the white skin of her neck. face grew momently brighter, and at last, with a deep sigh, as of perfect pleasure, she turned to Madonna and began to speak.

Her

"It was one afternoon, about two months ago. I had grown weary and dispirited with my long morning's practice, for it had exalted me strangely, and that often

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