CHAPTER XVII.
MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.
An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway.

He stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work.

It was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling.

An exquisite face--rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own--the radiant face of Mollie Dane.
The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor.

All day the dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight, ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.
The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold that transfigured the whole firmament.
A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.
"It is Mollie--living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to himself in sudden exultation--"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit by a king's side and wear his crown.