"B-r-r-r," said the artist. And Czar turned to look at him,
questioningly.

"All the same"--the painter continued--"when I was out there in the
studio, I could feel some one watching me--you know the feeling."

Conrad Lagrange returned mockingly, "I trust your over-sensitive, artistic
temperament is not to be so influenced by our ghostly visitor that you
will be unfitted for your work."

The other laughed. Then he said seriously, "Joking aside, Lagrange, I feel
a presentiment--I can't put it into words--but--I feel that I _am_ going
to begin the real work of my life right here. I"--he hesitated--"it seems
to me that I can sense some influence that I can't define--it's the
mystery of the rose garden, perhaps," he finished with another short
laugh.

The man, who, in the eyes of the world, had won so large a measure of the
success that his friend desired; and whose life was so embittered by the
things for which he was envied by many; made no reply other than his slow,
twisted smile.

Silently, they watched the purple shadows of the mountains deepen; and saw
the outlines of the tawny foothills grow vague and dim, until they were
lost in the dusky monotone of the evening. The last faint tint of sunset
color went from the sky back of the San Gabriels; while, close to the
mountain peaks and ridges, the stars came out. The rows and the contour of
the orange groves could no longer be distinguished the forms of the nearby
trees were lost--the rich, lustrous green of their foliage brushed out
with the dull black of the night; while the twinkling lights of the