parting to utter some wise or witty word--he had not painted them, never,
never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece. He became very
anxious. Had "Fortune," which usually left him in the lurch when
creating, aided him on this occasion? Last evening, before he went to
bed, the picture had been very different. Moor rarely painted by
candlelight and he had heard him come home late, yet now--now.....

He was roused from these thoughts by the artist, who had been feasting
his eyes a long time on the handsome lad, now rapidly developing into a
youth, as he stood before the canvas as if spellbound. He felt what was
passing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar incident had happened
to himself, when studying with his old master, Schorel.

"What is the matter?" asked Moor as quietly as usual, laying his hand
upon the arm of his embarrassed pupil. "Your work seems to please you
remarkably."

"It is-I don't know"--stammered Ulrich. "It seems as if in the night..."

"That often happens," interrupted the master. "If a man devotes himself
earnestly to his profession, and says to himself: 'Art shall be
everything to me, all else trivial interruptions,' invisible powers aid
him, and when he sees in the morning what he has created the day before,
he imagines a miracle has happened."

At these words Ulrich grew red and pale by turns. At last, shaking his
head, he murmured in an undertone: "Yes, but those shadows at the corners
of the mouth--do you see?--that light on the brow, and there--just look
at the nostrils--I certainly did not paint those."