A DOG OF FLANDERS. 109

so vain, so foolish, to dream that he,
a little lad with bare feet, who barely
knew his letters, could do anything
at which great painters, real artists,
could ever deign to look. Yet he
took heart as he went by the ca-
thedral: the lordly form of Rubens
seemed to rise from the fog and the
darkness, to loom in its magnifi-
cence before him, whilst the lips,
with their kindly smile, seemed
to him to murmur, “ Nay, have cour-
age! It was not by a weak heart
and by faint fears that I wrote my
name for all time upon Antwerp.”
Nello ran home through the cold
night, comforted. He had done his
best: the rest must be as God willed,

he thought, in that innocent, unques-