A long pause ensued.
"Will you tell me, Ellen," at length exclaimed Greenwood, deeply struck by all he had heard and seen within the last half hour,—"will you tell me, Ellen, whether you have lost your reason, or I am dreaming?"
"Lost my reason!" repeated Ellen, with fearful bitterness of tone; "no—that were perhaps a blessing; and naught save misery awaits me!"
"But the image—the picture—and the statue?" exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.
"They are emblems of phases in my life," answered Ellen. "I told you ere now that my father and myself were reduced to the very lowest depths of poverty. And yet we could not die;—at least I could not see that poor, white-haired, tottering old man perish by inches—die the death of starvation. Oh! no—that was too horrible. I cried for bread—bread—bread! And there was one—an old hag—you know her—"
"Go on—go on."
"Who offered me bread—bread for myself, bread for my father—upon strange and wild conditions. In a word I sold myself in detail."
"Again that strange phrase!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What mean you, Ellen?"
"I mean that I sold my face to the statuary—my likeness to the artist—my bust to the sculptor—my whole form to the photographer—and——"
"And—" repeated Greenwood, strangely excited.