And the poor uprooted Lily, what became of it?

On the morning appointed for that fancy bazaar to which reference has been so often made, Philip Everard was on his way to Selcombe Park. He had been detained at Marseilles by a summons to attend the death-bed of his mother.

Of the scenes which he had there undergone we will say little, save that they had left him in no mood to judge gently of those frivolities and follies of life which have such power to make a death-bed terrible. Comfortless seemed the past-well-nigh hopeless the future; yet had they not availed to solemnize the present; and the disfigurements which death was inflicting on the body seemed more grievous to the dying woman than those which life had left upon the soul! But from these painful and degrading recollections, Philip Everard turned his mind when he set foot on the shores of England, and, for the first time in his life of discipline and self-restraint, gave himself up wholly to the anticipation of coming happiness. The very strictness of his habit of reserve in all matters of feeling gave intensity and completeness to this solitary self-indulgence, as the narrowness of the one outlet causes the torrent to flow with a more irresistible force. In like manner the bitterness and scorn of his distrust of human nature in general seemed to deepen, and to perfect the fulness of his confidence in the one object of his love. He first idealized Edith, and then worshipped his ideal. The feelings, the hopes, the beliefs which had been blighted and suppressed whenever and wherever they had tried to struggle into being hitherto, had now found a green spot where they might break into abundant bloom and luxuriant growth; and in that one spot were they all contained. He had placed her image in a sanctuary in the inmost depth of his heart, and the three years of separation had been passed not merely in guarding the portal with duteous service, and expelling all profane intrusion of unseemly thoughts or words, but also in conveying to the temple every idea of nobleness or purity which he either conceived or encountered, and making it an attribute or a garment of the divinity within. Here was repose, here beauty, here perfect faith and love unfeigned, and exhaustless sympathy-here, in short, were answered all those needs of the spirit which life everywhere suggests, and nowhere supplies. With ingenuity, ceaseless, profound, unconscious, all that he beheld, either of good or evil, was by him converted into aliment for this, the secret life of his heart. If beauty, hers was more faultless; if wit, hers more delicate; if gentleness, hers more inherent and unforced; if constancy, hers more infallible; if elevation of soul, in hers he believed with a faith more unquestioning and unconquerable; while, on the other hand, if he encountered worldliness, or heartlessness, or littleness, or frivolity, was not the thought of her whom none of these things had touched or could touch, grateful as the sound of waters at noon-day? And now, shading his eyes with his hand, as the quick wheels brought him nearer and nearer to the realization of his dream, he suffered his fancy to revel in the details of the past, not as it had been for him, but as he imagined it to have been for Edith. He went back in idea to the hour of their separation; the whole scene in the boudoir was before him; Kinnaird cordial and encouraging; Aunt Peggy kind and tender; and the bowed and weeping figure on the sofa, the broken music of whose voice seemed still to ring in his ears the delicious assurance that he was indeed beloved. He saw her go forth from that chamber with a secret in her heart, deep and precious as his own; he watched her gradual recovery from the bitterness of her first anguish-her resumption of strength and composure, at least out wardly-her vigilant tending and nourishing of the fire within. He saw her in society but not of it, moving on with a graceful and courteous indifference, marvelled at by all for her unconsciousness of her own singular beauty, and her total carelessness of attention and admi

ration. He saw her walking by a light which others knew not, governed by a law which was a mystery to all save herself, growing daily in strength and purity of character, seeking, as far as she might, to withdraw from the bustle and the gaiety around her, that she might quietly cultivate the tastes which he would encourage, and form herself upon the model which he approved; and his proud heart whispered to him that so and so only would he be loved. Never once did a doubt of the reality of the picture obtrude itself; never once did his mind misgive him as to the reasonableness of his demands; never once did it occur to him that he was contemplating a reflection of himself, softened indeed and beautiful, but still possessing features of a cast more high, more serene, more severe in their nobleness, than any that he had seen in Edith. He considered not that the freshness of character which had so fascinated him in her, was rather the bloom of a flower that has never felt the heat, than the brightness of gold that has been seven times purified by fire; more lovely and alluring, perhaps, but wanting that inward law of stability which should enable it to endure the withdrawal of the influences by which it had been cherished, without failure or decay. No; his steadfast faith knew no tremor; his bright hope, no dimness; his perfect love, no fear. Alas, alas! and have we dared to vindicate woman from the common charges brought against her? Let us confess, with shame, that when she is weak, her weakness is indeed great; greater, even, than her strength when she is strong.

At the lodge of Selcombe Park Everard was informed of the bazaar; to which piece of news was added the somewhat unwelcome intelligence, that two stalls were to be held by the "celebrated beauties, Miss Kinnaird and Miss Glamis," whose names were bandied about on the tongues of the passers in and out, as the acknowledged attractions of the day-subjected to such discussion and comparison as if they had been favourite horses on a race-course. His severe delicacy was pained, and his temper ruffled; but he put away the unpleasant thought, and dismissing his carriage, and pulling his hat over his brows, resolved to steal in among the crowd, and, if possible, obtain a sight of Edith, unperceived and unrecognised. He felt that he could not announce himself to her in the midst of a scene like this, yet his impatience would not suffer him to wait till the evening without seeing her. Perhaps, too, there was especial sweetness to a man of his reserved, sensitive, and romantic temperament, in the idea of this silent and unsuspected indulgence of feeling. So he walked quietly through the green alleys of the garden, till he reached the principal tent, which was erected on a spacious lawn, in front of the house; here, gliding from entrance to entrance, and cautiously looking in, he at last found an opening which commanded a full view of the counter at which Edith presided, and was so near as to be within sound of her voice. At this spot he stationed himself, partly concealed by some of the ornamental drapery of the tent.

Edith was seated, a little fatigued with the morning's exertion; her costume was elaborate and magnificent; her beauty in its fullest splendour; Mr. Thornton, leaning with an air of perfect intimacy on the back of her chair, was playing with her bouquet, and from time to time addressing her with a low, almost whispered comment on the scene around. Lord Vaughan stood near, with a half-sullen expression of face, keeping watch over her with the steadfastness, and with scarcely more than the amiability of a bulldog, evidently suffering from what he saw, yet unable or unwilling to resign the power of seeing it. A crowd of gentlemen was grouped around the counter, the front rank constantly changing its place, as fresh comers pressed in from behind; and for each who addressed her, Edith had a smile, or a repartee, or a sentence delivered with such sparkling coquetry of manner, that it sounded like a repartee till analyzed, to complete the conquest which her beauty had begun.

She was evidently and undisputedly the centre of attraction, and her consciousness of this served to excite rather than to embarrass her; while the fact, that she had carried away the palm from her handsome but quiet and inanimate rival, (concerning whom Mr. Thornton had exhibited just sufficient interest to pique her into an effort to retain him at her side,) added a secret stimulus to her enjoyment of the universal homage which she would probably have been ashamed to confess, even to herself. Such was the sight which met Philip Everard's keen, fastidious eye; let us now record a few of the words which greeted his ears.

"Will you add one treasure more to my purchases?" inquired a gentleman of distinguished appearance, for whom Edith was collecting sundry trifles, which, after a long examination as much of the seller as of the wares, he had selected. Her eyes expressed inquiry, and he answered them by laying on the counter a bank-note far exceeding in amount the value of what he had bought, and saying expressively, "One flower from your bouquet!""

"I wish I might find many more such customers," cried Edith, as with a laugh and a slight blush she gave him a rosebud. "My flowers would be very much at their service."

No further encouragement was needed, and the nosegay was rapidly dismembered, the eager buyers only stipulating that each flower should be received from her own hand. Laughter and compliments resounded on all sides, as, standing up, she distributed them with inimitable grace. When she came to the last, however, she retained it, saying, as she placed it in her brooch, "I must have one for myself, you know." She turned as she spoke to Lord Vaughan, whose visibly darkening countenance had attracted her attention. "I am keeping the only one which has a meaning," said she, playfully pointing to the flower, a forget-me-not, "and the rest I have felt in duty bound to sacrifice for the good of the institution."

"Was it really a sacrifice?" asked he in a low voice. "Of course it was," she replied. "Nobody likes to part with a present."

He looked half appeased, and Mr. Thornton now demanded her attention. "I congratulate you on your conquest," said he.

"Who is he?" answered Edith, her eyes following the footsteps of her retreating admirer.

"The Duke of," mentioning a nobleman well known for his wealth, his connoisseurship, and his admiration of beauty.

"I suppose I ought to be proud of it," said she, a little disdainfully. But, Mr. Thornton, I am affronted with you. Why didn't you buy one of my flowers? Did you think them quite valueless!"

Not valueless, but invaluable," returned he. "I could not have presumed to set a price upon them: besides, I am expecting you to give me that last relique of the nosegay, which is the only one I wish to possess." "You are sanguine !" said she, laughing.

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"I know I am," replied Thornton. But you won't disappoint me, I am sure. I really ask it, and it is but a trifle to you."

"I will give you a whole bouquet, if you like," said Edith, taking one from the counter.

"No, no," he rejoined; "I want that one particular flower. I have set my heart upon it, or my fancy, if you like the word better. Just that one little floweris it so serious a matter? Won't you indulge me?"

Edith lowered her voice. "I don't want to make a trifle into a matter of importance," said she; "but I am really a little afraid of annoying Lord Vaughan, who gave me the bouquet."

Nay, that is a mere excuse," replied Thornton. "When you have sold all the rest to strangers, you won't give one solitary item to a friend. Is Lord Vaughan's good or ill temper a cause of so much anxiety to you?"

Edith turned away, a little displeased. "Do you really refuse me?" persisted he. "I really do," she answered. "You seem to think no one could refuse you anything."

"If I did think so," retorted he, "I have learned my folly." And with a degree of temper for which Edith was not prepared, he withdrew his arm from her chair, and sauntered away. At this moment Mrs Dalton came to take Edith's place, in order that she might go into the house and get some refreshment. Frank Kinnaird, who, from another part of the tent, had been watching her proceedings with vast dissatisfaction, advanced to give her his arm so quickly as to forestall the rest of her companions. Edith hesitated and lingered; she saw Mr. Thornton at a little distance, talking with much vivacity to Miss Glamis. Had her heart been interested she might have moved away with her brother, and hidden her secret bitterness of feeling under an outward indifference, or even coldness; as it was, she had no deeper grief than a little wounded vanity, with which was mixed a good deal of amusement, and a lurking consciousness of power. She looked at Mr. Thornton till she caught his eye, and then held up the forget-me-not, with a smile. He instantly approached her, and extended his hand imploringly. "I never said I was going to give it to you," said she, laughing.

"No; but you looked it."

"Pray come, Edith," interposed Frank brusquely; "it is past two o'clock, and you will be quite exhausted. Mr. Thornton, I beg you won't detain her."

Had Frank been away his sister would assuredly have behaved better; as it was, the spirit of wilfulness rose strong within her, and as she walked away with him, which indeed she could not avoid doing, she tossed the flower to Mr. Thornton with a smile and a shake of the head, as if she would warn him against deriving too much encouragement from the action. They passed close to the spot where Everard stood without observing him. How often do we pass, unconsciously, by the place wherein our whole future is sealed up!

"Edith," exclaimed Frank, "have you no consideration for my opinion-no recollection of what I said to you? If Everard were here-" her garment was brushing him at the very moment. How did he listen for her answer!

"I will not be for ever threatened with Captain Everard," said she, veiling the real feelings which his name always stirred within her under an appearance of petulance. You will make me weary of the very sound of his name."

66

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Edith. I am ashamed of you!" began her brother. "Oh! Frank, Frank, do spare me these ceaseless lectures," interrupted she; and ere she finished the sentence they were out of hearing. Everard stood still; he was a little pale, but outwardly quite calm. He was bearing the destruction of the idea on which his soul had been living for three years, and he had no leisure to be agitated. In another moment he was startled by the sound of his own name.

"Ah! Everard, how came you here? I didn't know you were in England!"

It was Mr. Delamaine, an old acquaintance. Everard quietly responded to his civilities, and would have left him, but was not suffered to escape so easily.

"Have you seen the rival belles?" inquired his tormentor. "There-look to your left-that little delicate girl with the auburn ringlets just saved from red, the blue eyes and dark brows, and complexion like a miniature painting. Very pretty, isn't she, for a blonde? She is the daughter of Ralph Glamis, who married a niece of Lord Fife. He was Colonel of theth Lancers in the year fifteen, got his arm hurt at Waterloo, sold out, and took an ice-house sort of a place somewhere in the Highlands. She hasn't a penny; but she is very much thought of."

At another time Everard might have inquired into

It is cold comfort, Frank—I cannot live upon a negative."

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"But the other-Edith Kinnaird (why do you shiver so, min? are you cold?) ah, she's not here now, but you'll see her in a few minutes. She is really a magnificent creature-astonishingly handsome, upon my word; but such a coquette!" (Mr. Delamaine had, in the last day or two, awakened to the fact that he had not a chance of winning Edith's favour; and as his heart was not very deeply interested in the matter, the only result was that he felt just sufficiently mortified to be a somewhat bitter judge of her demeanour.) "Do you see that man standing by the counter, with the forget-me-not in his hand? He is desperately in love with her, and she with him; but it's quite a question whether Lord Vaughan's title won't carry the day with her, after all."

Are you speaking from conjecture, Mr. Delamaine?" asked Everard, with a kind of desperate quietness. "Conjecture, my dear fellow? I have been staying in the house with them these four weeks, and have watched the whole proceeding. They are devoted to each other scarcely asunder for five minutes. He has been painting her portrait, and she has been giving him lessons in German. Her whole costume of this morning was chosen by his taste. I was present at the selection, and I must say I never did see such an accomplished flirt as she is in my life. All this time she has contrived to keep that poor fellow Vaughanwho, between ourselves, is not the brightest man in the world-in doubt whether she likes him or no. She tried the same thing with me, at first; but it wouldn't do, you know" (with a most Burleigh-like shake of the head). "No, no: I am rather too old to play at that game."

Everard could endure no more. He saw Frank Kinnaird on the lawn at no great distance, and, breaking abruptly away from Delamaine, who stared after him in mate and half-indignant wonder, he hurried to join his friend. Mechanically replying to the latter's vehement expressions of surprise and delight, he grasped his arm, and led him rapidly away from the public part of the grounds till they had reached a retired walk out of sight and hearing of the throngs of visitors. Here, suddenly dropping his arm, and looking him earnestly in the face, he said, with a trembling voice,

"Frank, what is all this about your sister? Tell me the truth, and tell me at once! No!" he added, with a sudden change of tone, "you needn't tell me anything: your face speaks for you-and for her."

"My dear Philip," cried poor Frank, whose embarrassment was most painful, "I really don't know what you mean. Nothing has happened to justify this-" "Stop," interrupted his friend. One word is enough is she TRUE to me?" And he pronounced the word with a tremendous emphasis, that told how great and how deep was the idea contained in it.

"I assure you, upon my honour," said Frank, "she has never expressed the slightest approximation to a wish to be freed from her engagement."

46

"Less than an hour of her presence has been enough to disenchant me," returned Everard, in a calmer but not less bitter tone. "I have been seeing, hearing, judging for myself. And for this I am come home !" added he, with deepening gloom, and speaking as if to himself.

During this brief conversation they had been walking quickly along one of the paths which conducted them to the house, and they now issued forth upon the terrace at the very moment in which Edith was crossing it to rejoin her party in the tent. Her eyes met those of Everard. Both stood still, as if transfixed.

Frank hurried to meet her, and, taking her by both hands, drew her almost forcibly forwards. The idea suddenly occurred to him, that if he could but bring them together, all would be well; she would return at once to the singleness of devotion which he demanded, while he would not be able to retain his wrath in the actual presence of one so beautiful and so beloved. Vaguely but vividly the thought darted through his mind, and he said in a hasty whisper to his sister, as he compelled her to advance, "It is Everard, Edith. Do not be agitated-command yourself: your folly has well-nigh lost him, but only do what is wise and right, and he will be yours again instantly. Tell him that you confess you have been in fault, and are sorry for it."

The stern pale countenance and immovable figure of Everard gave mute confirmation to his friend's words. He was there as a judge, and there was the sentence of condemnation in his eyes. Let it be remembered that Edith's conscience, which vanity and temper had helped to blind, had never once accused her of sin against him; that her heart had been true to him all the while, though not with such truth as he required; that her estimate of the homage and confidence which he owed her was measured rather by what she ought to have been and by what she believed herself to be, than by what she was. The lightest suspicion of her seemed to her as deep an injury as though her faith had been kept, during these three years, as scrupulously and duteously as his own. Quivering with agitation in every limb, she said, as she struggled to disengage herself from her brother's grasp,—

"Let Captain Everard speak for himself. I shall not be ashamed to answer him."

Even then-so dearly did he love her a soft word might have disarmed him; but her manner was haughty in the extreme, from the very tumult of the feelings which her woman's pride was labouring to suppress. He felt it to be only a confirmation of what he had himself witnessed and heard.

"I have but a few words to say," returned he, in a slow calm voice, his eyes riveted upon her shrinking face. For the second time, I pronounce you free from all bonds to me."

The allusion was almost too much for Edith's selfcommand. Her heart swelled within her; but ever present was the bitter and indignant thought, “He has ceased to care for me, and shall I show that I care for him?" One emotion of penitence might have saved her; but she had it not, because she believed him, not herself, to be guilty. Bowing her head, she replied,"It is enough: I wish to do the same by you." A passion passed over his face, sudden, convulsive, electrical; perhaps till he heard those words he had scarcely realized the truth of what he had seen. stinctively, and without deliberate intention or absolute consciousness, he stepped forward, took her hand between his own, pressed it once fervently, then flung

In

relief.

And here we leave her. Shall we pity her? We may fairly do so. We pity the child who, ten times warned, plays on the shore without once looking to the rising waters till they have ingulfed him and shut out all hope of escape. The sin which causes misery should at the same time deepen pity, because it cuts away all support from the miserable, except that which is to be gradually and painfully attained by repentance. Little can pride avail when the soul is left desolate; and self-satisfaction (unlike self-approval) is feebler still. These may mould the outward demeanour into coldness and calmness, but they do but enhance and embitter the struggle within, by adding to it elements of pure evil, which retard and hinder the process of restoration, in itself painful enough. Edith was stunned. Even now she could scarcely believe that she had indeed seen him, and that such words had passed between them. Again and again she told herself that she was wronged-again and again the might of a shadowy and unacknowledged truth put her to silence. But the result was in either case the same. The one prop was broken, the one light quenched-the beauty, the hope, the life of life was gone. Nothing was left but darkness, without a guide; and a heavy burthen, with no strength to bear it. At last she wept, and the tears were of utter misery, without softness, without comfort-a bodily revulsion, leaving the heart still parched and burning, as by a destructive fire.

It was thus that Philip Everard and Edith Kinnaird parted for the second time.

BARTHELEMI ESTEBAN MURILLO;
OR, THE BOY-PAINTER OF SPAIN.1
CHAPTER IV.

"FATHER, you are much better now, and will soon be able to resume your work," said the little Murillo. "You see that it is not very difficult to please the merchant Ozorio, and the pictures for America are easily done. You will be quite able to take my place after my departure."

"After your departure!" exclaimed Theresina, entering with a breakfast tray, which she almost let "Are you going away?" added she, with a cry of agony.

fall.

"My dear mother," said Barthélemi, as he ran to her, and, taking from her the tray, laid it on a table, then, clasping her hands in his, and pressing them to his lips," My dear mamma, do not oppose it; you see my father says not a word."

"But I cannot bear you to leave me. Where do you want to go?" said the poor mother, bursting into

tears.

"Since you must know, listen to me, my dear mother," said the child, so seriously, with such a decided tone, and such a beaming glance, that Theresina looked at him more than once, as if to assure herself that he was indeed her son, the little Barthélemi Esteban Murillo, whom, not long since, she cradled on her knees. He appeared to the poor mother to have grown a whole head in a second. She sat down, and Barthélemi seated himself beside

(1) Continued from p. 8.

"I am now thirteen," said the young Murillo, "and life in painting escutcheons, or in daubing bad pictures you cannot suppose, mother, that I will spend my for a venture to America. No; I feel, mother, that I was born to be a painter; I know it by the glow at my heart, and the kindling of my brow, at the sight of a fine painting. Yes, were it only by the quicker flow of the blood through the veins when the names of Raphael, of Correggio, of Rubens, of Van Dyck, and still more, that of our countryman, Velasquez, are pronounced before me, I feel that I was born to be a painter. I pray you, father, do not oppose my vocation."

where are the means? we are so poor." "God forbid, my son," replied Esteban. "But

"The greater number of our great painters were born father." poor, "But they found masters who were glad to admit them into their schools."

"The greatest master in the art of painting is Nature, father. Our countryman, Velasquez, is a proof of it."

"I must say, like little Meneses, that the name of Velasquez is never out of your mouth," said his mother.

"And I will answer you as I do him, mother; that he is of Seville, and Seville is proud of him, and I will have it yet one day proud of me. Oh! if you knew what honours were paid him, ten years ago, at Madrid, in 1625. He drew the portrait of the Canon Tonesca so admirably, that the king employed him to take his likeness. He represented the prince covered with armour, and mounted on a magnificent horse. The king having, on a holiday, had the picture exhibited before the church of San Filippo, it excited such enthusiasm, that the people bore it in triumph to the palace. Velasquez is a friend of Rubens, and is now in Italy with him. That is the reason I want to go there."

But how? where are the means?" again demanded Esteban.

"The means may be slow, but they are sure," said Barthélemi. "I intend buying canvass, cutting it into small squares, and painting on each of these squares saints, which I can copy from the pictures in the churches, or flowers, which I can sketch in the fields or gardens. I have already some by me, but not enough; and I must work for Ozorio two months at the very least to complete the sum.".

"Your plan is not amiss; but I think you are too young, my dear Barthélemi, to go alone into Italy. I know you are pious, and your mother and I have endeavoured to instil moral principles, which I trust have taken deep root in your heart. I will allow you to go, but not just yet."

"But as soon as I have the entire sum,-may I not go then, father?"

"Well, be it so," said his father.

Satisfied with this assent to his plan, which Esteban had only given because he fully relied on his having it in his power to prevent the completion of the sum until the moment he himself judged it advisable to let his son leave them, Barthélemi sat down to his breakfast, gaily talking of his plans; and, the repast over, he took up his picture, and, locking at it with a pensive air, he exclaimed, "It would be a pity to sell this even for ten ducats!" Then, rolling it up, he put it under his arm, and took the road to the cloister

of San Francisco.

Velasquez."

The stranger smiled with an undefined expression. "There are far greater than he, my child,-Van Dyck, Rubens, Raphael, Le Poussin, and MichelAngelo."

"I am but a child, it is true, Senor," replied Barthélemi, stealing a glance at the stranger; "but I feel full sure Velasquez might take his place among those painters you have named. Methinks, Senor, you cannot be an artist. Pray say, am I mistaken?" Meneses returned at this moment; Barthélemi whispered to him, "Go and ask the servants who are standing there in the porch the name of their master."

The question of the young Murillo had somewhat embarrassed the stranger, for Meneses had returned from accomplishing his errand before he had replied

to it.

"I refused six ducats yesterday," said Barthélemi, whose elbow Meneses nudged as he whispered,— "You ought to say ten.'

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Why?" demanded Barthélemi in the same tone. "It is a trick of the trade, which you do not know, but I see it practised every day," replied the son of the merchant Ozorio. "Take my advice, say twenty ducats."

"That would be a falsehood; fie, Meneses!" said Barthélemi.

"You said, my young master," said the stranger, attentively watching the two children, "that you yesterday refused-eh-how much did you say?"

"Six ducats, Senor," replied Barthélemi, unhesitatingly.

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Well, I will give you twenty; am I to consider the picture as mine?"

"But it is not worth that!" said Barthélemi, blushing up to his eyes at once with pleasure and modesty. "I know that," said Don Rodriguez.

Then, Senor, you are making game of me."

"I am not paying the artist as he is now," said Don Rodriguez, "but as he will be: you cannot study here, there is no school; with my twenty ducats you can set out to Madrid."

"Oh, if I had enough to go into Italy!" cried young Murillo, in such a tone of sadness that the stranger appeared moved at it.

"You can go to the Gallo-Spanish school. I will give you a line to him who is at the head of it.” Young Murillo started up, and eagerly asked, "Is it for Velasquez?"

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The stranger smiled.

"For Velasquez.”

"And I shall see him-I shall see him!" "As you see me now.'

"Oh! then, Senor, you may rest satisfied that you have rendered Barthélemi happy," said Meneses. Velasquez is his hero, his model. And if that were all, there would be no harm done, but he imitates him in everything. Velasquez has a peasant who laughs and cries whenever his master likes, but as I cannot laugh or cry when Murillo pleases, many is the woeful hour I pass."

The young Murillo had remained silent as if bewildered by the prospect thus suddenly opened to him. He was to go to Madrid!-he was to see Velasquez!— It all seemed like a dream. Don Rodriguez now took his hand and said, "This evening at the Hotel de Castillo, in the Piazza de-la-Plata, at seven o'clock." He had spoken and disappeared before Murillo had recovered from his trance of wonder and joy.

CHAPTER VI.

As Barthélemi returned home grave and serious in the thoughts of the future now lying before him, and followed by Meneses, who was carrying part of the working apparatus of the young painter, Donna Theresina came out to meet him into the middle of the street.

"Good news!" said she, "you had hardly gone out this morning when Senor Ozorio arrived, bringing me the ten ducats which you yesterday demanded for your picture; you must take it to him after dinner."

"At what hour was Ozorio here?" inquired Barthélemi.

"At ten o'clock. I have locked up your ten ducats with the rest of your little store."

"How unfortunate!" said Barthélemi, "I have just been promised twenty for it."