CHAPTER XV.

PAUL PEARSON'S DISTRESS-THE MINISTERING ANGEL.

WHILE these events were transpiring in Y, a young artist (already introduced to the reader) lay stretched upon his bed in an humble street in the city of London apparently in a very reduced if not dying condition; Paul Pearson had come to London intending to proceed to Italy but, owing to pecuniary embarrassments he had been obliged to remain in the city and eke out such a living as he best could by painting landscape, figures, conversation-pieces, and portraits when he could get them to do. Clever though he was, in a strange city without friends, he began to find it at length difficult to scrape together money enough to provide him with the necessaries of life. Sinking deeper into distress, his increasing poverty began at last to tell upon his health.

He was no longer the same gay, handsome student as when first introduced to the reader, a companion of Ernest's in New York. His features grew parched and thin, and the lustre of his eye unnaturally bright, his hand shook sometimes so much that he could hardly hold the palette, or steady the brush sufficiently to paint, yet still he laboured on, supported, as his physical health decayed, by the fire of genius within. It is strange what a triumph mind sometimes exerts over matter. Amid all that Amid all that penury and distress, the spirit struggled and retained the mastery. He would not yield: he would not die-ere he had looked on the sky of Italy and seen the glories of Michael Angelo.

Reader when you stand in some gallery of art and feel disposed to be unnecessarily severe on the work of some unknown artist, let the biting sarcasm just trembling on the lip remain unspoken. Think that the work before you, may have been the last expiring effort of some child of genius, struggling with penury, illness, and despair, and that the heart which conceived

it has ceased to beat and the hand which executed it may be mouldering in the grave. Day after day the artist sat and painted on some sweet smiling landscape in the midst of that crowded city while the pulsations of his heart grew weaker and weaker and the day seemed not far distant when the light flickring down in the socket would be altogether extinguished.

At last he grew so ill that he was utterly unable to paint and was obliged to keep his bed. His little stock of money was quite exhausted and he was obliged to pawn picture after picture to procure food and medicines. Mary, the housemaid, a kind-hearted girl took the pictures to the dealer's or the pawn-shop, and brought back the money. One day she had gone on her errand as usual. Pearson had seemed rather flighty and light-headed in the morning and she hastened back. Before entering the room, she heard the sound of voices. The patient was delirious and talking incoherently but he was not alone. By his bed side was what seemed to Mary, as she afterwards

described it, a white-robed angel of mercy -a beautiful young woman who seemed from the methods she took to soothe the patient to be quite au fait in a sick room. She wrote on a slip of paper and handed it along with a piece of money to Mary, who went to the nearest druggist's and returned with a a composing draught. It was administered and soon after Pearson fell into a refreshing slumber. The fair unknown, after watching some moments by his bed side put her finger to her lips and walked on tip-toe out of the room, beckoning Mary to follow.

"I am a professional nurse," she said, " and heard accidentally that there was a young artist here who was dying. I do not think there is danger if he has proper nursing and nourishing diet I shall continue to visit him; you seem kind, will you do all that you can for him in the mean time?"

"That will I ma'am," said poor Mary, with the tears in her eyes, "and oh, if you knew the sorrow I have felt, ma'am, to see him a

growing weaker and weaker every day," here Mary put her apron up to dry her tears. "But indeed, ma'am, that's just what's the matter with him. If he could only afford little comforts, I believe he'd soon be about again. And indeed, ma'am, I once made bold to offer him a small loan myself when he was harder pushed than usual, just to save one of them beautiful picturs. But he's proud, ma'm, for all he's so poor."

"Is he?" said the lady, (for such she might be called without impropriety in spite of her humble occupation) who seemed very much interested in Mary's account of the young artist. "You seem to have a kind heart. And has he no other means of living but by his pictures ?"

None, ma'am. I goes out with them to a picture-dealer's. Sometimes he won't offer anything like their value, and then I takes them to the pawnbrokers. But Lord, maʼam, to think of them elegant picturs goin' for a mere nothink."