each and every part which he saw written in the young man's face. As
he watched, something like hope and exultation began to light up his
sullen, heavy features; thought and feeling began to spiritualize and
ennoble what but a little before had been so coarse and repulsive.

Ernst was looking at Dennis in rapt awe, as at a messenger from heaven.

The poor wife, who had listened in a dull apathy to the conversation,
raised her head in sudden and intelligent interest when the picture
was replaced upon the wall. It seemed that her every hope was bound
up in that. As she saw Dennis and her husband standing before it---as
she saw the face of the latter begin to assume something of its former
look---her whole soul came into her great blue eyes, and she watched
as if more than life were at stake.

If that meagre apartment, with its inmates, their contrasts of
character, their expressive faces, could have then been portrayed, it
would have made a picture with power to move the coldest heart.

At last Dennis drew a long breath, turned and gave his hand to the
man, saying with hearty emphasis, "Mr. Bruder, you are an artist."

The poor man lifted his face to heaven with the same expression of joy
and gratitude that had rested on it long, long years ago, when his
first real work of merit had received similar praise.

His wife saw and remembered it, and, with an ecstatic cry that thrilled
Dennis's soul, exclaimed, "Ah! mine Gott be praised! mine Gott be
praised! his artist-soul come back!" and she threw herself on her
husband's neck, and clung to him with hysteric energy. The man melted