"Ah, she is lovely," said Garth, with reverent enthusiasm. "It
positively is not right for any one to be so absolutely flawlessly
lovely. It makes me ache. Do you know that feeling, Miss Champion,
of perfect loveliness making you ache?"

"No, I don't," said Jane, shortly. "And I do not think other
people's wives ought to have that effect upon you."

"My dear old chap," exclaimed Garth, astonished; "it has nothing to
do with wives or no wives. A wood of bluebells in morning sunshine
would have precisely the same effect. I ache to paint her. When I
have painted her and really done justice to that matchless
loveliness as I see it, I shall feel all right. At present I have
only painted her from memory; but she is to sit to me in October."

"From memory?" questioned Jane.

"Yes, I paint a great deal from memory. Give me one look of a
certain kind at a face, let me see it at a moment which lets one
penetrate beneath the surface, and I can paint that face from memory
weeks after. Lots of my best studies have been done that way. Ah,
the delight of it! Beauty--the worship of beauty is to me a
religion."

"Rather a godless form of religion," suggested Jane.

"Ah no," said Garth reverently. "All true beauty comes from God, and
leads back to God. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from
above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.' I once met an old