“That is utterly impossible. To-morrow, then, before the rooms are filled with visiters, I shall look for you,” said Martin, with a decidedly grateful accent and look, and the young men walked slowly away.
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CHAPTER III.
The Noonday was nearly finished. The city was ringing with the surpassing beauty and the matchless voice of the young singer Alice. And Martin Gray’s numerous and powerful friends every where declared that the picture on which he worked so diligently, would add the greenest leaf to his glory-wreath.
The artist loved his picture—loved he the original? No! he could have worshiped the canvas on which that matchless face was impressed, but when he looked on Alice, and listened to her beautiful words and the so musical, delicious pronunciation, though he saw and heard with the most enthusiastic admiration, it was still only that of the artist—the man’s heart was untouched.
He had never shown to her the “child-angel.” After his call upon “Alice,” so strengthened was become Martin Gray’s persuasion that it was the Alice of bygone recollections, that he feared to hazard the display of the portrait to her.
Let us see if his precaution was a wise one.
It was the last sitting. On the following day the lady was to depart with a distinguished company of singers, on a long professional tour through the Western and Southern cities. She had risen, for the hour was passed, and stood looking for the last time on the beautiful works of the artist, which adorned the room.
“Do you remember,” said Martin, approaching her, “I promised to show you the portrait which I called the Sunrise, pardon me that I have not done so before, this is the one.”
He raised his hand and turned to the light a small picture, which for the few past days had looked upon the wall.