it, perhaps forever, brought sad feelings to my heart. How
calmly the old pines whispered together as we walked down
the road that morning I shall not soon forget.

We reached the American metropolis early in October, three
years after my first arrival there from England. I rented
comfortable apartments on Fifth Avenue, near Madison Square.
As soon as Rayel had recovered from the fatigue and
excitement of the trip, we set about unpacking his pictures
and getting them framed. Our lightest room was reserved for
a studio, and the paintings were hung under Rayel's
direction.

We were scarcely settled in our new home when we received an
unexpected call from a newspaper reporter. He had learned
from an art dealer that we had some remarkable old
paintings, and humbly begged the privilege of looking at
them. We made him welcome, of course, but I explained to him
that the collection was wholly the work of my cousin, who
was not yet old himself. In answer to his questions I
assured him that the paintings would not be exhibited in the
National Academy, and that my cousin's work had never
appeared in any art exhibition whatever, at which he seemed
greatly surprised. Rayel was still shy of strangers, and, as
he was evidently a little annoyed at the presence of our
visitor, I shielded him from the need of taking any part in
our conversation.

The next morning an article appeared in one of the leading
dailies, which subjected us to a glare of publicity not at