beyond a range of low hills, purple in the evening light. In the
sky was a rosy sunset glow, melted above into saffron color, and
this was reflected in the water, gilding and mellowing the
foreground of sedge and water lilies. But what made the picture
specially charming was that the artist had really caught the
peculiar solemn stillness of evening; merely to look at that quiet,
peaceful river brought a feeling of hush and calmness. It seemed
a strange picture to find as the sole ornament in the study of a
man who had all his life been fighting the world.

Erica brightened up again, and seemed to forget her anxiety when he
questioned her as to the artist.

"There is such a nice story about that picture," she said, "I
always like to look at it. It was about two years ago, one very
cold winter's day, and a woman came with some oil paintings which
she was trying to sell for her husband, who was ill; he was rather
a good artist, but had been in bad health for a long time, till at
last she had really come to hawking about his pictures in this way,
because they were in such dreadful distress. Father was very much
worried just then, there was a horrid libel case going on, and that
morning he was very busy, and he sent the woman away rather
sharply, and said he had no time to listen to her. Then presently
he was vexed with himself because she really had looked in great
trouble, and he thought he had been harsh, and, though he was
dreadfully pressed for time, he would go out into the square to see
if he couldn't find her again. I went with him, and we had walked
all round and had almost given her up, when we caught sight of her
coming out of a house on the opposite side. And then it was so
nice, father spoke so kindly to her, and found out more about her