"See," she had arisen, and stood before him in all her strong, young beauty; "you need me? Without me you cannot make your splendid picture?"
Thornly shook his head.
"It is not the money you want, nor just the fame, but you want to give the world a great joy."
"Yes, yes! As God is my witness, Janet, that is my desire."
"Then I will help. Oh! forgive me! Come, please, come, only"—here she smiled pitifully—"please leave the door open! It shall never matter again; nothing can change things now."
Thornly staggered to his feet and half extended his hand to draw the girl in; then something stayed him.
"I cannot paint to-day, Janet," he whispered. "Something is changed. Perhaps the old longing will return, but I must not trust myself until I know. Go, little Pimpernel, you are the greater artist of us two!"
"I'm very sorry the day is spoiled," she returned brokenly; "if I had only known more, it would have been different. It seems as if I cannot ever forgive myself."
She turned, and went sadly over the hills with never a backward look. And Thornly gazed after her with yearning eyes. She was taking with her—what? Inspiration? Yes, but something deeper and more vital was passing with that vanishing form. What was it? What had occurred to change the summer sunlight to drearest gray?