his hand, and then vanished as swiftly as a shadow.

Ulrich remained alone, pacing slowly up and down before the treasury,
for he knew that he had done something very wrong, and did not venture
to appear before the artist.

When he entered the dark garden, he had again summoned "fortune" to his
aid; but now it would have pleased him better, if it had been less
willing to come to his assistance.

Candles were burning in the studio, and Moor sat in his arm-chair,
holding--Ulrich would fain have bidden himself in the earth--the boy's
Cupid in his hands.

The young culprit wanted to slip past his teacher with a low "good
night," but the latter called him, and pointing to the picture, smilingly
asked: "Did you paint this?"

Ulrich nodded, blushing furiously.

The artist eyed him from top to toe, saying: "Well, well, it is really
very pretty. I suppose it is time now for us to begin to paint."

The lad did not know what had happened, for a few weeks before Moor had
harshly refused, when he asked the same thing now voluntarily offered.

Scarcely able to control his surprise and joy, be bent over the artist's
hand to kiss it, but the latter withdrew it, gazed steadily into his eyes
with paternal affection, and said: "We will try, my boy, but we must not
give up drawing, for that is the father of our art. Drawing keeps us