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to every fantastic fear that presented itself for admission.

Hour after hour passed, and now he began to start at every step that approached his door; his heart palpitated and his breath came thick, but the steps passed carelessly on, as though no one were conscious of his existence. The gairish light began to soften and fade; surely it must be evening! Andrea shuddered at the terrible possibility that he had been wholly forgotten.

A loud rap on the door put to flight this last tormenting fiend. The judges had come. As they entered Andrea thought they glanced around with an expression of undisguised scorn.

He faltered out, "You are very welcome, it was so late, I almost feared"—

One of the judges interrupted him, and answered, gruffly, "Yes, we are late, we have made the rounds of the studios, and a fatiguing time we have had of it; this is the last, we must get through quickly while the light serves."

His tone expressed not merely impatience, but the conviction that they could meet with no artistic achievement in that locality which would require much examination, or give rise to any prolonged discussion.

Andrea seized the crimson curtain with a convulsive grasp, threw it aside, and turned away, that he might not see the condemning countenances of his merciless critics. Large drops of