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No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the

thing upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the

hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for

it. The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet

would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The

hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop,

would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There

would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the

twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been

so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed.

There was no help for it.

"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning

round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of

something else."

"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker,

who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"