but a pale portrait of thing I had conceived.

    tures er-colours. t represented clouds loance oo,  billo lifted into relief a , on , dark and large, s beak  set  I ouc tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking belo, a droer; a fair arm  orn.

    ture contained for foreground only ting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at to t, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. tar; ts beloreamed sorn by storm or by electric travail. On tion like moonlig lustre toucrain of tar.

    ter sky: a muster of norts reared to distance, rose, in toing against it. ting it, dreures a sable veil, a broe bloodless, emples, amidst urban folds of black drapery, vague in its cer and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of inge. t  it diademed he shape which shape had none.”

    “ere you ed tures?” asked Mr. Rocer presently.

    “I  t, o enjoy one of t pleasures I have ever known.”

    “t is not saying muc,  I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland range tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”

    “I o do, because it ion, and I sat at till noon, and from noon till nigion to apply.”

    “And you felt self-satisfied  of your ardent labours?”

    “Far from it. I ormented by trast beto realise.”

    “Not quite: you ; but no more, probably. You  enougist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet to ts, tar you must  not at all brilliant? for t