66

Nay, you must not speak so seriously. I have some experience in sick rooms, and can detect a patient's thoughts by his looks. You have thanked me often and often, though not in words."

You are kind to say so. I am but a poor painter, who have spent most of my life in rustic out-of-the-way places, and know not how to speak to the purpose. But no speech could express my sense of obligation to you, who have saved my life here in a strange country far away from home and friends. Believe me, if I could speak better I should feel less. If there was anything the poor artist could do to show his gratitude-may I not offer you one of these pictures, unworthy as they are, as some memorial of a thankful heart?—or, perhaps," he hesitated for a moment, and then went on— perhaps you would like a portrait of yourself better? I can paint a lady's portrait well, it is next to figure-painting-my forte; and with such a subject!" and his eyes glistened. was quite unconscious of flattering Miss

66

He

Marchmont-he had no intention of doing so -he only spoke as he felt-the artist was aroused. Mentally he was engaged in transferring that beautiful subject to canvass-those light blue eyes-those golden locks—that symmetrical figure. Ah, what a portrait it will make," he exclaimed, thinking aloud, and then blushing at his own earnestness, and afraid that he had offended Miss Marchmont.

"I shouldn't think of letting you engage in anything so unremunerating at present."

"But," pleaded the artist, "I have no orders on hand."

I

"Do not be too sure of that, I think I can get you a sitter or too, when you are able to begin, but you must not be in too great a hurry, and I have a lady friend who is desirous to purchase some of your American views. told her about that beautiful little picture of the Niagara Falls, and she is quite eager to get it. Come now, what do you ask for it." "Would she think two pounds too much," said the artist timidly.

ture,"

"Two pounds only for that beautiful pic" said Miss Marchmont, "why, already without seeing it, from my description only, she commissioned me to offer five pounds for it. She said it must be worth that, if it was worth anything. You must not be too humble in your prices. Here are the five pounds;" and she put the money into Pearson's hand. "I will take it with me, it is easily carried, and, though strictly speaking, this should be my last visit as your nurse, yet you must allow me to visit you occasionally in the capacity of a friend, and see what new work you have in hand. Good bye for the present," and without permitting the artist to get in a word, she hurried from the room, leaving poor Pearson perfectly bewildered with amazement, hope, and gratitude.

He recovered rapidly from that time. He began to paint with greater vigor than ever. Sitters began to drop in too, who proved a great trial to his patience, but at the same time enabled him to make a livelihood; but he felt that

a change had come over him. He took greater pleasure now in painting a certain face with flaxen ringlets into his fancy pictures, than in the forest and prairie scenes in which he had formerly delighted. His thoughts wandered back less frequently to home and friends; he did not even anticipate so keenly a visit to Italy as he had been wont. He began to think London neither so strange nor so hateful as at first. He began to look forward very anxiously for one of those promised visits from a certain person, and to take consultations with Mary as to the probability of discovering her residence. Whether she ever did come back the reader will learn all in good time, at present we must leave Paul Pearson, to hurry back to Ernest Basil, whom we left in a very critical posture of affairs.

END OF VOL. I.

T. C. Newby. Publisher, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.