Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a
false line he had drawn.
What is that something--or some-bod-y?
He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time.
As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of the
hotel.
"Have you been successful?" asked she, dawning upon him.
"You shall judge."
He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump.
"Good; but a little careless," she said.
"Do you draw, Miss Wayne?"
A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remembered where she
had last heard those words. She shrank a little, almost imperceptibly, as
if her eyes had been suddenly dazzled. Then a little more distantly--not
much more, but Arthur had remarked every thing--she said:
"Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening."
"Stop, please, Miss Wayne!" exclaimed Arthur, as he saw that she was
going. She turned and smiled--a smile that seemed to him like starlight,
it was so clear and cool and dim.
"I have drawn this for you, Miss Wayne."
She bent and took the sketch which he drew from his port-folio.
"It is Manfred in the Coliseum," said he.
She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her in
astonishment as the blood slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamed
back again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope Wayne
looked from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye to
discover if he knew what he was doing.
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