The train was
flying. The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her
breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,
houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles. "Faster! faster!" she cried. His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer sky,
seemed fixed on something far ahead,--something which came no nearer, but
fled before them as they fled. Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the
cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slipping
through the vaguer blue above? "Faster! faster!" she cried. Her parted lips burned scarlet. The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed. "Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing
him to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!" He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle,
but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind whistled in
their ears. "Not so far out, Valentine, take care!" he gasped. Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view
and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more
through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl
was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist,
crying, "Not too far!" but she only murmured, "Faster! faster! away out of
the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!" "What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken,
and the wind whirled it back into his throat. She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about
her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows
rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the
dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled
eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried
out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not that--not that!" But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and
passion, and when she sobbed--"Not that--not that--I have promised! You
must--you must know--I am--not--worthy--" In the purity of his own heart
her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after. Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned
against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a
joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the
trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and
looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but
her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "I
cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master--master
of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I
have told you all;--what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence and
she worshipped his. She spoke again: "Take me or cast me away;--what
matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die
than to look upon happiness as great as mine." He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,--look out at
the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so
bright a world." She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed very
fair to her. Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I have
never known it." "Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured. Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both. RUE BARRÉE

  "For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
  Of what they will and what they will not,--each
  Is but one link in an eternal chain
  That none can slip nor break nor over-reach." "Crimson nor yellow roses nor
  The savour of the mounting sea
  Are worth the perfume I adore
  That clings to thee. The languid-headed lilies tire,
  The changeless waters weary me;
  I ache with passionate desire
  Of thine and thee. There are but these things in the world--
  Thy mouth of fire,
  Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
  And my desire." I

One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is Foxhall
Clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an
easel, doing nothing. Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I have
just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice was
lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly
assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through
the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a
scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception
in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight. "It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows
when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a
simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students
of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the
majestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:
"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a
friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You
expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?" "Of course." "And you don't mind chaff?" "No," replied Selby, who hated it. Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it
at first." Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door. As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau! Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened
but looked at Clifford. "Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing. A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio. "Et moi?" cried the model. "You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the
studio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!" while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "À demain
beau jeune homme!" All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students
christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The
Prodigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease
soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to
"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately
relapsed to "Kid." Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students
writhed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who was
informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the
art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing
in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal
gesture.