"What—what was it, dear?" she said at last.
He smiled again.
"I dreamt that my picture had been refused by the Academy. Absurd, wasn't it? Fancy them refusing one of my pictures! Mine! Francis Lisle's! Ridiculous as it is, it—it upset me. I—I must be out of sorts. There is only one thing for that kind of complaint: Work. Get—get a fresh canvas stretched for me, Leslie, and I will commence a new picture. Let me see, what did we get for the last? Three thousand pounds, wasn't it?"
"Yes, yes, dear!" she murmured.
"A large sum, a large sum, but not half what we shall get. Fame, fame and fortune at last, Leslie! I always told you it would come."
He put out his wasted hand and smoothed her hair lovingly—and, alas! patronizingly. "Always knew it would come, Leslie! Art is long and—and life is brief. I must work hard now fame and success have brought me the victor's laurels. How dark it is—" the sunlight was streaming through the window—"how dark! Too dark to commence to-day; but to-morrow, Leslie dear, to-morrow——." His voice grew fainter and ceased. The doctor bent over him, then stood upright and laid his hand upon Leslie's shoulder with a touch that told her all.
Francis Lisle had gone to the land where to-morrow and to-day are swallowed up in Eternity.