About two weeks after the death of the baby Dr. Belford called upon Noel. It was absolutely necessary, he said, to do something to rouse Christine from her state of hopeless lethargy. He had accordingly laid his plans to do this. He had discovered, through Eliza, that all the money furnished for the support of the establishment for some time past had come from Christine, and that Dallas even to his wife for money for tobacco and car-fares, pretending he went out looking for work.  
“As far as I can understand,” said Dr. Belford, “the creature has no strong vices—he is too bloodless and for them. Even when he had money it doesn’t appear that he gambled, and I don’t believe he drinks. He is simply wanting in principle, feeling and everything. Eliza says he has scarcely spoken to his wife, or she to him, since the baby died. Indeed she never speaks a word to any one beyond what is necessary. This state of things cannot go on. I told Eliza yesterday to go and ask her for money, which she did. On the heels of it I went to her and told her you wanted to begin a new picture and could find no model so suitable as herself. I asked her if she would agree. She told me then that Eliza had come to her for money to carry on the house, and that she felt she must, in some way, earn it, as she would not owe tradespeople, who could not afford to lose by her. So she asked me to tell you she would begin the sittings to-morrow.”
 
“What a friend you are, Doctor, to her and to me!” said Noel, grasping his companion’s hand.
 
The doctor held his hand in a pressure as he looked at him keenly and said:
 
“I think I know my man. At all events I’m going to trust you. I haven’t much belief in saints, but unless you’re a double-dyed scoundrel you will never betray this trust.”
 
 
Noel answered nothing. The two men grasped hands a second longer and then, each satisfied with each, they parted.
 
When Christine came the next morning the pity that Noel felt for her almost overcame him. It was evident that the sight of the place brought up the saddest memories, and she appeared at the door empty-armed, instead of weighted down by her helpless little burden. The look on her face, as she threw back her veil, was almost more than he could bear. By a mute little gesture she seemed to him not to speak of what filled the minds of both, and he obeyed her. She gave him both her hands. He felt like falling on his knees before her, and controlled himself only by a strong effort. It seemed not to do something to help her, but what could he do?
 
“I’m so sorry for you,” was all he could say.
 
“Don’t speak. Don’t make me speak. You know I thank you for everything. I can’t talk.”
 
Then, loosing his hands, she walked off to a window and stood looking out, while Noel chose a different canvas and busied himself with preparations for work. Presently she came and placed herself calmly, and Noel began to draw. Occasionally he said some little thing, and she , but they both soon felt that silence was the only thing. There was no suggestion of tears in her eyes, but their look was the sadder for that. When the sitting was ended Noel tried to make her take a glass of wine or some fruit, but she turned from them almost with distaste. As she was leaving, however, she asked if she might have the roses on the table. When Noel eagerly said yes she took the great bunch in her hand and went off—he well knew where!
 
After that she came daily, and the picture progressed, but she, the beautiful model, remained unchanged in her hopeless and .
 
One day at the close of the sitting Noel, as usual, went from the studio to his l............