An exquisite
face--rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own--the radiant face of Mollie
Dane.
The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor. All day the
dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight,
ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed
out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.
The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand
and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold
that transfigured the whole firmament.
A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of
the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.
"It is Mollie--living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to
himself in sudden exultation--"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit
by a king's side and wear his crown. Come in!"
For a tap at the studio door suddenly brought our enthusiastic artist
back to earth. He flung a cloth over the sketch, and leaned gracefully
against the easel.
The figure that entered somewhat disturbed the young man's
constitutional phlegm--it was so unlike his usual run of visitors--a
remarkable figure, tall, gaunt, and bony, clad in wretched garb; a
haggard, powerful face, weather-beaten and brown, and two blazing black
eyes.
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