he had money, and to spare, little Marie proceeded to explain how she wished to vend this picture without delay. There was to be a festival on Sunday—a grand fête at Fontainebleau-and she wished to buy herself a new hat and gownsomething delicate, fresh, and new.

Claude listened, interested in spite of himself. The slender willowy figure stood up in its blue dress graceful as a lily-stem, and like a lily-flower on its standard looked the little noble head with its masses of fair hair.

The next morning when Claude visited the gallery he saw Marie at her post. She smiled and nodded and blushed when the young monsieur approached her. Their friendship ripened fast. Many people turned to watch the noble, melancholy, handsome young fainéante loitering by the side of the pret ty blue figure with its crown of glorious golden hair.

"Papa used to call me little Blueling," she explained to Claude, "because I always wore this blue dress to paint in. Do you think it an odd name? I like it. But no one calls me that now. No one waits now to cry, 'Welcome, petite Bluet,' when I come home late from my work."

When Claude left the gallery Marie always followed him with her soft fairfringed eyes. Thus she noted that he always paused for a farewell glance at the Watteau. The sad look in his large proud eyes grew always sadder when he looked at this picture.

The little painter having noted, pondered on this fact as she lay that night musing into the smaller stiller hours of

mouth; the moon crept nearer and looked kindly on the ingenuous Greuze face nestling in the pillow. Ah, well! goodnight, little Marie. Of all your plenteous sisterhood there is no one so stainless, so sweetly pure as you to-night.

The next day Marie's work did not advance so well. It chanced that Claude did not come until late to make his daily visit, and then he was gloomy, morose. He spoke little, and when the timid child got sufficient courage to put the question to him why he always lingered before the Watteau, he frowned and turned abruptly away.

"I like to regard it because it was a favorite with the woman whom I loved, and who betrayed me," was his bitter answer, and then he left her.

Poor little Blueling! She could not tell why her fingers trembled so that day. She could not work. Her sight was dim; her touch uncertain. "I kept too long awake last night," the poor child thought. "I need rest and sleep; perhaps to-morrow I shall do better."

But when Claude-penitent, regretting his harshness of the previous dayhurried on the morrow to the gallery, he missed the little blue figure at its accustomed post. Instead a large briskeyed old Frenchwoman was there, enameling with nimble fingers the cruche cassée on porcelain. The young monsieur looked anxiously about. A little dim blue heap in a recess caught his eye. He hastened to it. It was Marie -le petite Blueling-in tears.

Another moment she was pouring her grief into Claude's brotherly ears. She could not finish the picture. Le gros tante Margot had driven her away, saying that she was a sluggard; that she wasted her time; and now-and now

"What is that all?" interrupted Claude, smiling. "Why, you can finish the picture to-morrow, when the aunt is gone. Why do you weep?

"But do you not see?"- Marie's eyes flashed disappointment and rebuke through their tears-"I wished to go to the festival, and now I have no money. I wished to buy me a fresh bonnet and robe, but-but"-she broke down again.

"But then you must permit me to purchase the bonnet and gown," interrupted Claude. "I shall pay for my picture beforehand. Tiens, little one! Dry up your tears; no more of weeping, but let us go and seek for the prettiest toilet in all Paris."

And a moment later little Marieglancing, smiling, tears past, only a tender quiver of the mouth left—was dancing down the boulevard by Claude's side to the magazins de mode. All the world assisted at the fête next day. Claude, if he had not already compensated himself for any trouble he had taken by watching Marie's dainty dimples of the previous day, might now have felt amply rewarded in seeing the little transformed Blueling dancing under the oaks of Fontainebleau in the pretty dress he had provided for her. As for her, she tricked the sunbeams of half their brightness. A robe of soft gray and blue silk, demi-length, enveloped her pretty young élancé figure. A dainty Watteau hat shaded the face at once so fine, clear, serene, and her lovely hair fell drifting like a cloud. Taken all in all, the little Blueling was a sight that would have been a joy forever, had not a certain event occurred which dimmed its brightness and brushed away its bloom in the young monsieur's memory through days to come.

Claude lingered near his favorite for awhile, enjoying her happiness; then, leaving her surrounded by a group of dancing comrades, he sauntered away. He looked about him, musing dreamily as he loitered down those fragrant alleys

dame had lingered, coquetted, mocking lightly, and playing with wondrous grace the skillful game of hearts. Francis I, Bayard's king, stood up a knightly figure that no age could dim. Henri II. glided by, holding Diana of Valentinois by the hand; the two dim old-time lovers looked up and pointed to the entwined ciphers on the palace walls, and smiled into each other's eyes. Napoleon was there, carrying his dying eagles smitten in all their fiery pride to sudden death beneath the alien skies of Moscow. Queen Christina of Sweden and the murdered Monaldeschi stalked frowning past. Groups of ladies - courtly dames and proud patrician beauties— trailed past the dreamy watcher, loitering by the tiny sunlit lake where the swans slept. He saw their smiles, he watched their trick of manner. A scent of passionate old-time perfume floated to him from the broidered robes they swept back so gracefully. He caught the gleam of jewels on snowy arms. Diamonds flashed, pearls nestled in those dainty boddices, flowered, scalloped over rosy bosoms, garnished with knots of ribbon-"nœuds de parfaits contentements." O, what grace-puffed, powdered, perfumed! What toil! They smile on Claude. "Behold us," they say. "We are the past; we were the true mistresses of France. Are we not beautiful? For us the gaiety, the light of life, for us the love and feasting. We are history. Our smiles light up the songs of France's dead chivalry.”

Claude started up. He rubbed his eyes and gazed about him bewildered. "Have I been sleeping?" he muttered, with some vexation. He heard the laughter of the revelers, and had turned to join them, when he caught sight of a figure leaning against a tree near him. Was this a part of his vision, then? He watched it a moment, irresolute; a slight fair female figure. Claude could not see

the face; it was turned away, the brow bent down as if in thought. The young monsieur, respecting the unknown lady's silence, was about to move noiselessly away, when he caught sight of a glove, lying on the grass close to the hem of her sweeping robe. He advanced and picked it up; and then, startled, hearing his footsteps, the woman stirred. She looked around; Claude saw her face. He stood mute, transfixed, holding the glove in his outstretched hand. His face turned white and then red. She, too, stood staring, trembling. She, too, turned pale, then flushed like any Provence rose. She made a slight movement forward.

of it, for I am happy, too. Good-night, little Blueling."

The pretty child's face turned first crimson, and then pale, under that kiss. She drew a long slow breath. Her happy loving heart swelled full to bursting; then a sigh fluttered from her lips.

"Good-night," she whispered, half to him, half to something else of herself— a part of her own being that seemed to be going with him as he went, softly humming a chanson, away.

All that bright, long, sleepless night, Marie flushed and dimpled on her little bed, and crumpled her rose-leaf cheek on the white pillows. "I don't want to sleep," she said to herself, sitting up

"Claire! thou?"

That was all. And then somehow they both seemed to move together. The outstretched hands met in a clasp that promised never to unlock. The lovers, parted, were now united again.

They had a cool swift ride en voiture back to Paris. Claude attended Marie to her home. He was in a state of queer high exaltation that was strange to his little ignorant companion. As for Marie, she dreamed golden dreams. She regarded Claude with soft glamourish eyes. Who so generous, so good and kind as he? Was not this pretty dress his gift? O! he must care for her, else he would not have given it. He must; he did. She took off her hat and stood gravely, with clasped hands, in the centre of the little low-ceilinged room.

"Are you happy, child?" asked Claude, who was watching her with an indulgent smile.

Marie lifted her soft eyes to his. "Happy? O, yes, yes! I have been very happy! I am happy!"

"I am glad of it!" The young monsieur laughed a low exultant laugh. He took little Marie's hands in his, and kissed her on either cheek. "I am glad

of bright hair from her forehead. “I want to keep awake and think of him. I wish to-morrow would come. I wish it was here now, so that I might see him."

The so sweetly wished - for "to- morrow" came in due time, but little Marie did not see Claude. She hastened to the Louvre. All day she lingered there, but he did not come. It was not until the third day after, that chancing to lift her gaze from the work over which she was bending listlessly, with wan cheeks and tear-dimmed eyes, she saw the wellknown figure coming near. She uttered a low cry; a flood of joyous color rushed over her face, grown so soon wan, for these three days had been an age to the poor child; and then, ah, then, the bright gay coloring faded from her cheeks. She shrunk back into herself, crushed and cowering, and strangely abashed. For Claude was not alone. A lady, with a beautiful brune face, was leaning on his arm. He was looking into her dark eyes, and he did not see poor Marie. As for her, she stood there, mute, stunned, watching with wide-strained blue eyes the coming of the happy lovers. They stopped before "Le Départ pour Cythère,” and Claude

whispered something to his companion. A lovely blush dyed her brilliant face. Then the young monsieur lifted her fair gloved hand to his lips. The little golden head beyond sunk down, down, as a flower does when weighted with summer rain too heavily.

Little Marie seemed all at once, in the spring-time of her life, to have lost both youth and happiness together. She crept home from the gallery that fatal day. She had a vague perception that for her all was finished. She tossed feverishly on her pillows that night. "I am not well," she thought, "but it will pass. To-morrow I shall be better, and will finish the picture."

disordered couch. "Why did you not tell me you were ill, little one?"

But Marie, pushing back her hair, smiled gaily. She would not be sick now. She lay there, content. Claude sat by her side, holding her hands. They nestled, like little soft white downy birds, tenderly in his; wee happy hands once more.

"I am well now; I am happy once again," she sighed.

She could not talk much. Claude, too, was silent, moved, as he was, by the soft serene burning out of this white life. When he went away, he stooped and kissed her. She did not speak, only her blue eyes flickered, her weak breath stirred, her tired heart panted with its last earthly throb.

She was lying back on her pillows, her bright golden locks tossed from her thin face. The pretty gray and blue dress she had worn at the festival, together with her hat, was lying beside her. She started up when Claude approached. She hesitated one moment, white, uncertain; then, with a feverish sob, she flung herself forward on her friend's broad breast, and nestled there, quivering like a homesick bird.

"Hush! hush!" he cried, frightened at the storm of emotion that shook her fragile form. He put her back on the

"Good-by, little friend, you must be better to-morrow." He touched the golden head. She lay quite silent when he was gone; not dimpling now, not

higher and then higher. She seemed to linger-resting her cheek on the lattice, and looking in on the little ivory sleeper on whom her clear light bestowed a fragile and delicate immortality.

Poor little Blueling!

Her "to-morrow" was all eternity. Claude keeps the unfinished copy of the "Cruche cassée." Sometimes he looks at it, and then little Marie's golden head comes between him and the light.

Poor little Marie! Poor little prodigal! She emptied her joyous heart in one long and deep libation at Love's feet, and then, exhausted, died.