picture. I don't pretend to have altered my opinion about
photogravures, and all that. But come now, the thing itself? Be
honest, Warburton. Is it bad, now? Can you look at that picture, and
say that it's worthless?"

"I never said anything of the kind."

"No, no! You're too deucedly good-natured. But I always detected
what you were thinking, and I saw it didn't surprise you at all when
the Academy muffs refused it."

"There you're wrong," cried Warburton. "I was really surprised."

"Confound your impudence! Well, you may think what you like. I
maintain that the thing isn't half bad. It grows upon me. I see its
merits more and more."

Franks was holding up the picture, eyeing it intently. "Sanctuary"
represented the interior of an old village church. On the ground
against a pillar, crouched a young and beautiful woman, her dress
and general aspect indicating the last degree of vagrant
wretchedness; worn out, she had fallen asleep in a most graceful
attitude, and the rays of a winter sunset smote upon her pallid
countenance. Before her stood the village clergyman, who had
evidently just entered, and found her here; his white head was bent
in the wonted attitude of clerical benevolence; in his face blended
a gentle wonder and a compassionate tenderness.

"If that had been hung at Burlington House, Warburton, it would have
been the picture of the year."