“Well, I hope so!” and Miss Leigh’s voice was a little tremulous; “But artists are very impressionable, and live so much in a world of their own that I sometimes doubt whether they have much understanding or sympathy with the world of other people!  Even Pierce Armitage—­who was very dear to me—­ran away with impressions like a child with toys.  He would adore a person one day—­and hate him, or her, the next!”—­and she laughed softly and compassionately—­“He would indeed, poor fellow!  He was rather like Shelley in his likes and dislikes—­you’ve read all about your Shelley of course?”

“Indeed I have!” the girl answered,—­“A glorious poet!—­but he must have been difficult to live with!”

“Difficult, if not impossible!”—­and the gentle old lady took her hand and held it in a kind, motherly clasp—­“You are a genius yourself—­but you are a human little creature, not above the sweet and simple ways of life,—­some of the poets and artists were and are in-human!  Now Mr. Jocelyn—­”

“He is human!” said Innocent, quickly—­“I’m sure of that!”

“You are sure?  Well, dear, you like him very much and you have made a friend of him,—­which is quite natural considering the long association you have had with his name—­such a curious and romantic coincidence!—­but I hope he won’t disappoint you.”

Innocent laughed, happily.

“Don’t be afraid, you dear little godmother!” she said—­“I don’t expect anything of him, so no disappointment is possible!  Here we are!”

The brougham stopped and they alighted.  Opening the house-door with a latch-key they entered, and pausing one moment in the drawing-room, where the lights had been left burning for their return, Miss Leigh took Innocent tenderly by the arm and pointed to the portrait on the harpsichord.

“There was a true genius!” she said—­“He might have been the greatest artist in England to-day if he had not let his impressions and prejudices overmaster his judgment.  You know—­for I have told you my story—­that he loved me, or thought he did—­and I loved him and knew I did!  There was the difference between us!  He tired of me—­all artists tire of the one face—­they want dozens!—­and he lost his head over some woman whose name I never knew.  The result must have been fatal to his career, for it stopped short just when he was succeeding;—­for me, it only left me resolved to be true to his memory till the end.  But, my child, it’s a hard lot to be alone all one’s days, with only the remembrance of a past love to keep one’s heart from growing cold!”

There was a little sob in her voice,—­Innocent, touched to the quick, kissed her tenderly.

“Why do you talk like this so sadly to-night?” she asked—­“Has something reminded you of—­of him?” And she glanced half nervously towards the portrait.

“Yes,” answered the old lady, simply—­“Something has reminded me—­ very much—­of him!  Good-night, dear little child!  Keep your beautiful dreams and ideals as long as you can!  Sleep well!”