intellectual power, and his mien imposing, not only from its calm, but
from that nameless refinement which rarely fails to give to the student
the air of a gentleman,--Olivier Dalibard he might dread, he might even
detest; but he was not ashamed of him.

"I said I would visit you, sir, if you would permit me," said Gabriel, in
a tone of respect, not unmingled with some defiance, as if in doubt of
his reception.

The father's slow full eye, so different from the sidelong, furtive
glance of Lucretia, turned on the son, as if to penetrate his very heart.

"You look pale and haggard, child; you are fast losing your health and
beauty. Good gifts these, not to be wasted before they can be duly
employed. But you have taken your choice. Be an artist,--copy Tom
Varney, and prosper." Gabriel remained silent, with his eyes on the
floor.

"You come in time for my farewell," resumed Dalibard. "It is a comfort,
at least, that I leave your youth so honourably protected. I am about to
return to my country; my career is once more before me!"

"Your country,--to Paris?"

"There are fine pictures in the Louvre,--a good place to inspire an
artist!"

"You go alone, Father!"

"You forget, young gentleman, you disown me as father! Go alone! I