She sent me to fetch you." Conrad Lagrange turned his peculiar, baffling eyes upon the young man.
"Does _she_ like it ?" "She seems to." "If she _seems_ to, she does," retorted the other, rising.

"And that's different." When the novelist, with his three friends, stood before the easel, he was silent for so long that the girl said anxiously, "I--I thought you would like it, Mr.Lagrange." They saw the strange man's eyes fill with tears as he answered, in the gentle tones that always marked his words to her, "Like it?
My dear child, how could I help liking it?
It is you--you!" To the artist, he added, "It is great work, my boy, great! I--I wish your mother could have seen it.

It is like her--as I knew her.

You have done well." He turned, with gentle courtesy, to Myra Willard; "And you?
What is your verdict, Miss Willard ?" With her arm around the beautiful original of the portrait, the woman with the disfigured face answered, "I think, sir, that I, better than any one in all the world, know how good, how true, it is." Conrad Lagrange spoke again to the artist, inquiringly; "You will exhibit it ?" "Miss Andres says that I may--but not as a portrait." The novelist could not conceal his pleasure at the answer.

Presently, he said, "If it is not to be shown as a portrait, may I suggest a title ?" "I was hoping you would!" exclaimed the painter.
"And so was I," cried Sibyl, with delight.