At this moment there was a loud knock and a ring at the | at that instant a charming tableau vivant, but loving street-door. eyes were the only mirrors in which it was reflected. "It is very kind of you, my dear, to come in tonight," said Mr. Ireton, pressing the hand which had laid itself in his.

alike in person were William and Pembroke Ireton, that | blindness fell on him; but he bowed to it, meekly calldear friends mistook them for each other; so alike in tastes had they been, that books were common property between them; pictures, it is true, were sometimes called "mine," and "thine," but as the brothers never dwelt apart, this had little signified. Ordinary friends of the amateur artists knew not their respective drawings, though, to be sure, certain connoisseurs had lately announced that William had the truer and higher genius; and yet it was William who, after a few days of wrestling thought, abandoned the pursuit of Art for

ever.

ing it the only hard trial of his happy life; and now,
indeed, he blessed the loving kindness which had given
him so many dear ones to be eyes and hands for him.
"Meanwhile, Pembroke Ireton, still estranged from
his brother's family, had returned to England, and was
established as a painter of singular, but very high
repute. His pictures brought him large sums of money,
but little was really known of the artist as a man
| though many and curious were the stories of his eccen
tricity, which circulated among the lovers of anecdot
and gossip.

"Bessy and Lotty can keep a secret, I suppose?' exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, as soon as Willy's last goodnight was said, smiting and looking, as she spoke, inter

"Sister, of course we can," replied the younger, answering for both, and seeming by her tone as if the dignity lately acquired by having officiated as bridemaid, was tarnished by a doubt being entertained of her discretion.

Not so Pembroke; for he had borne the loss of fortune less nobly than his brother, for he had fretted, and fumed, and reproached over it. William had buried his regrets as in a grave, and only relaxed the iron firmness of his lip when comforting and counselling his vener-rogatively at the two girls. able and heart-broken father. Quickly, too, he had addressed his betrothed, releasing her from her vow, if so it pleased her, and yet beseeching her still to love and trust him, and wait but a little space till he could decide how independence was to be won, that he might claim her. And when, "upon this hint," her true heart replied, loosening as it did so some folds of prudery, and she crept one day uninvited to his side, and there, with smiles and tears, re-registered her vows, he felt and knew that he had chosen well, and that the fulfillment of near duties commonly brings about our choicest blessings.

William Ireton abandoned once and for ever all dreams of fame, and devoted himself to lead the Human Life to toil diligently and cheerfully for those who depended upon him. He cheered the last days of his aged father; he married the woman he loved; he threw his talents, his energies, into business; reared up the fallen fabric of mercantile honor, paid off old debts, and established a new firm of such noble repute, that its name is a synonym for upright dealing.

Pembroke, on the contrary, devoted himself to Artthat jealous mistress who, now that he had determined to live by his pencil, he discovered could bear no rival near her throne; and so he broke off his engagement with the girl whose heart was wholly his; and when William remonstrated with him on the manner in which this was done, he quarrelled with his brother, as he who is in the wrong commonly does with his reprover. The breach widened. Pembroke once more went abroad, but failed to correspond with William, because it was said there was an inmate of his family before whom his name had better not be mentioned. But that inmate died—the broken-hearted girl, the wife's sister: her death was a lesson of faith, and full of beauty and pathos, and there was a sweet message of love and forgiveness to be written to the absent one, which was done very gently; and yet Pembroke Ireton took no heed. Years had rolled on. William was the affluent banker-merchant, secure, humanly speaking, from the ills of fortune, when his sight-which, from an attack of inflammation experienced under peculiar circumstances in early life, had long been failing-showed the most alarming symptoms. The terrible affliction of

The frequent beautiful smile parted Mrs. Crawford's lips as she observed the manner; but addressing herself more particularly to her parents, she proceeded: “Uncle Pembroke has made our acquaintance without in the least suspecting the relationship. He wants my face for his model in a grand picture he is painting;" and then, as if a sudden consciousness came upon her, that she could not describe the circumstances she had to relate without some laudation of her own person, a flush rose to her cheek, and turning to her husband, she added: "Edward, will you tell the story as briefly as you can ?"

"It is a very simple affair," said Mr. Crawford. "Yesterday, we were riding on horseback in the park, when, happening to turn my head, I saw that my groom had stopped for a moment, and was in conversation with a gentleman. I fancied that something was wrong with the horse, and that the stranger had called his attention to it; and as the man galloped on after us the next instant, and, moreover, we met a couple of friends who joined us, the whole thing slipped my memory till this morning, when I received a letter from Mr. Pembroke Ireton. Shall I read it aloud ?" As "Pray do " was repeated on every side, he read as follows:

SIR: Two years ago I composed the sketch of a picture illustrative of Tennyson's poem, The Princess, but I have delayed the completion of my design from my inability to find a living realization of the poet's ideal. Feeling convinced that my true model, if discovered at all, would be found among my countrywomen, I, last spring, visited those places of public resort where beauty and intellect would be likely to congregate, with my search solely in view. One night, at the opera, I beheld Mrs. Crawford, and from that hour she has been the only Ida in the world for me. She must have sat back in the box during the early part of the evening, for it was only towards the close that I beheld her; and though I made my way to

the door as quickly as possible, intending to follow the | belonged to the "long ago" of a past century; the old carriage home, in the crowd and confusion of the occa- house had survived many vicissitudes, and now, for sion she was lost to me. Since then, I have made many nearly twenty years, had been the abode of a bachelor inquiries, but, without a clue to her name or abode, artist. Not one really comfortable habitable apartment how could they be other than fruitless? Latterly, I did it contain-for Pembroke Ireton, keeping himself have stolen an hour from every day's short daylight, apart from all socialities, scarcely knew or remembered with the hope of finding her among the equestrians in the ways of the world; and his two servants, from our parks; and that I succeeded yesterday, and learned their forced seclusion and simple routine of duties, had from your servant your name, proves how true was my fallen into a sort of lethargic, indolent mode of life, that instinct. Sir, I beseech you, condescend to permit and rendered them, in this busy age, hardly less eccentric persuade Mrs. Crawford to sit for my picture. She is than their master. the realization of the Princess Ida; I cannot accept any other countenance for her; and if you deny me, I must work from that shifting, imperfect memory bequeathed to me by two transient glances. For the love of art, do not refuse me; and if to this entreaty I may add another, it is that you will accept from me the finest portrait of Mrs. Crawford which can be painted by

affection."

"PEMBROKE IRETON."

Every room was more or less crowded with pictures, casts, antiquities, draperies, or other adjuncts of the atelier, and into these sanctuaries brooms and brushes were very sparingly admitted. The light was actually obscured by the dirtiness of the windows; and I will not hazard a conjecture as to the number-had their census been taken-of the colony of spiders which brought up their families in peace and security in shady corners and unmolested nooks.

"Edward, you will not refuse?" exclaimed Mr. Ireton It was about noon-the high tide, indeed, of Decemwith visible emotion. "Dear Frances, of course you ber daylight—and Pembroke Ireton was growing impawill sit for this picture? and I foretell that my lonely tient, for he had arranged the windows, the chair of brother will at last be restored to our knowledge and state, the easel, and made every preparation for his “We have forestalled your wishes," said Mr. Craw-model, when suddenly a new thought possessed him, and he rang his bell sharply. His one woman-servant ford, “by appointing to-morrow to call on him. How answered the summons. Hannah was a comely, portly, well," he continued, "I remember that night at the middle-aged dame when she first entered the artist's opera! Frances did sit behind my mother, who rebuked service, but time, and the strange life she had led, had us more than once for chattering." changed her to the stooping, crone-like old woman. Hannah had never, in her brightest days, been overburdened with ideas, but she had two strong affections in her heart-one toward her eccentric master, and the other for her brother Timothy, whom, on the strength of his being ten years her junior, she still called a lad, and whom, soon after her own engagement, she recommended for her fellow-servant.

"Frances is a little like her namesake, my lost sister," said Mrs. Ireton, after a musing pause; "though the likeness is chiefly apparent when she speaks and smiles-the tones of her voice are like too. I wonder if Pembroke will trace these resemblances, and waken to the memories of his youth !"

II.

Pembroke Ireton was accustomed to receive certain connoisseurs of art, and wealthy patrons, which, by the way, he usually did with an air of indifference, that amounted to churlishness; but the visitors whom he was now momentarily expecting, aroused in his mind feelings of delight that were quite new to him. To have a true, perfect, living model for his grand picture, was the realisation of one of his dearest hopes; for the Man was to all appearance so merged in the Painter, that it seemed as if nothing connected with his merely human life could arouse his sensibilities in a degree to be compared with the influence of circumstances concerning his art.

It was a large, roomy house which Pembroke Ireton inhabited, just on the outskirts of the now fashionable part of London. Long ago, in the days of the two first Georges, it had been the scene of many a stately festivity; its wide hall had accommodated the sedanchair, and its staircases been acquainted with hoops and trains; the spinet and harpsichord had resounded in its chambers, where courtly-powdered beaux, sword-girded and star-blazoned, had moved in solemn minuets, with patched and painted ladies. But all these things

"Hannah, what am I to have for dinner to-day ?" was the prosaic question the artist asked of his cook and housekeeper.

"A steak to-day, sir," she replied; "you had some chops yesterday; and to-morrow is the day for a roastfowl."

"Ah, true, true; but I expect visitors-a sitter, to whom I should like to offer some refreshment." "Cake and wine, sir-I can buy a beautiful cake at the pastry cook's ?" suggested Hannah.

Hang cake and wine! No, I mean something dainty, and yet substantial-fit to offer to the Queen herself."

"Lor', sir, you frighten me! I haven't cooked a great dinner these twenty years."

"And I don't mean, I don't want a great dinner; only something very elegant, and very choice, to be ready about dusk-say, four o'clock. I will give you some money, and you must go to the people who supply collations. I don't care what it costs. I cannot stay to talk to you. Didn't you hear a carriage? and there's a knock. Timothy is deaf, I think, not to open the door. And tell him to get the wine from the inner cellar-that tokay that Lord L sent me and hock

and champagne, and the port that was laid down in '38. | erintendence, the "collation" had been spread, a stranger Mind, four o'clock; and sweep out the parlor a little, if you can. Here, take the money;" and hurrying her out of the room as he put a bank note into her hand, he added once more: "Never mind what it costs."

Possibly the last words were heard by the Crawfords as they ascended the stairs.

Surely there is no costume in the world more becoming to a woman of radiant, queen-like beauty, than a rich winter out-of-door attire. And as Frances Crawford appeared now in a robe of dark velvet, with an Indian Cashmere-whose size, though twice folded, was more than commonly ample-drawn gracefully round her; and furs of the rare, costly, peerless Russian sable, she looked, if far too lovely to have stepped-as the phrase is out of a picture, yet notably worthy a painter's half-adoring study.

looking on, would have considered the trio rather a party of old friends than mere acquaintances of a day. Even certain incongruities of the repast made mirth, and wore off formality; for Hannah, however much "on hospitable thoughts intent," had no knowledge of rule and custom to guide her; and though the viands were sufficiently good and abundant to afford an excellent meal, they were so strangely chosen, that it was easier for the host to make a laughing apology for his servant's selection, than pass it by unobserved. But the new friends did not part without the day for another sitting being appointed; and Mr. Ireton entreated that they would arrange to spend the evening with him afterwards, as he had certain curiosities of art he desired much to show them. As the Crawfords finally consented to this proposed plan, after only a faint, formal demurring at "such intrusion," they exchanged a glance which showed how mutually they rejoiced at the turn affairs had taken.

But the second sitting was more eventful than the first had been. Now, Frances was placed in the exact pose required for the great picture; and to complete the effect, a light drapery was thrown over her velvet

Pembroke Ireton's admiration and delight showed themselves in the flush of his sallow cheek, and in the cordial, grateful greeting he awarded to his guests. The occasion seemed so much less connected with the relations of social life than with the circumstances of his art, that he lost, in a great measure, the shyness which had for years been gradually incrusting itself round his manners; while his early good-breeding of course pre-robe, and fastened after the antique style on her shoulder. vented the iteration of personal compliments to Frances, which, after all, would have appeared as inadequate as offensive, coming in the wake of the one great compliment he had paid her.

The great picture was to represent that scene where the Princess Ida rebukes the seeming "northern ladies," saying:

"We did not think in our own hall to hear

This barren verbiage current among men," and where the disguised prince and his confederates, "conscious of themselves, "perused the matting." At this first sitting, it was only a study of the face and figure the painter purposed; yet long before they parted, the artist hoped in his own mind to paint many pictures of Ida, illustrating the great, wise poem of which she is the heroine, even to the point where

"Her falser self slipped from her like a robe."

For this purpose, Pembroke Ireton selected from his stores a rare cameo, to which belonged a history. It was one of the undoubted works of Benvenuto Cellini, and had been nearly from his day in the possession of a noble French family, whose late descendant, fleeing from the guillotine in the Reign of Terror had rescued it with some other valuables, to prove his means of existence in exile. Pembroke Ireton purchased the brooch at great cost from the collector, who had received it from the noble exile's own hand; and this matchless head of Minerva--for such it represented—had independently of the stamp of its own beauty, an authentic pedigree of its possessors. Perhaps to gratify the taste of some belle of the eighteenth century, it had been gorgeously set round with brilliants, but though these were included in the price which Pembroke Ireton cheerfully paid for the brooch, he had ruthlessly broken them away, leaving his treasure in its original chaste simplicity.

Very earnest and very honest were Mr. and Mrs. Crawford's expressions of admiration of this exquisite work, and they were discriminating expressions too, so that the painter felt that his guests understood what they praised; and his pale cheek flushed, and his eye sparkled with pleasure as this sympathy declared itself. By this time the dusty cobweb-festooned parlor had been something more than "swept out." Pembroke Ireton had felt the incongruity of entertaining his beauti

But while the painter seemed lost in the delight of his self-appointed task, his visitors were contemplating him with an interest he little suspected. Beneath the calin flow of an easy, chatty discourse, his unknown niece and her husband saw more than once into the depths of his nature. When Mrs. Crawford first spoke, there was a startled glance from Pembroke Ireton's eye; and after he had grown familiar with her voice, he more than once heaved a quiet sigh after she had been speaking. Again, when Mr. Crawford addressed his wife by her Christian name, there was an evidence-they hav-ful guest in a lumber-room, and had taken care that ing, as it were, the key to the cipher by which it was betrayed that told of a memory not dead, but sleeping.

Very sociable grew the painter and his guests, even at their first visit; and when the deepening winter twilight caused him to rest from his labors, and they all descended into the parlor, where, under Hannah's sup

needful renovations and preparations should be made; and, on this second occasion, it was with every appointment of elegance and comfort that the trio sat down to their repast. Now, a party of three, where two of the number are a really united married pair, while enjoying the ease and confidence of close companionship, are usually more animated and conversational even than a

tête-à-tête pair. Thus, merely as a pleasant social meet-
ing this second sitting was to be marked with white in the
calendar; but after dinner, when the bright fire, and
the soft lamplight, and the presence of his guests, threw
a home-charm around Peinbroke Ireton, to which he
was little accustomed, his nature seemed to melt, and
his voice modulated to a tone, as if to speak his long-
pent up emotions were become a necessity to him.
"Not unless I tell you a heavy secret," he ex-
claimed, addressing Frances, can you estimate my
gladness at discovering you, or my gratitude for your
compliance with my wishes.

"I feel it an honor," replied Mr. Crawford, "that Frances should should be immortalised by so great a painter. Dear sir, never mention gratitude again!”

"But I must," continued Pembroke Ireton with visi ble emotion-" I must: even one year hence might have been too late. The great painter-what a mockery! in a little while to be the desolate, afflicted old man! My friends!" he added with forced composure, "I am losing my sight-physicians own it to me: unless I give up painting, I shall be blind in two or three years."

"Then," exclaimed Frances in a thrilling tone of entreaty" then, in pity to yourself, paint no more: cease from this hour. What is Art to sight?"

"He is happy, though blind," returned the daughter, with a sort of cruel kindness towards her hearer"happy, because our love, that seemed before too vast for increase, still grew as his sight waned; and the wealth of the heart outweighs the wealth of the senses. It seems to me a beautiful dispensation of Providence, that this heavy affliction has fallen where every surrounding circumstance lightens and alleviates it. Had my father been lonely and childless, how much more. terrible would have been his lot!"

There was a minute's silence. With the morbid sensitiveness of a recluse, and the keen perception of one who, if only for the purposes of his art, had been accustomed to ana omize the passions, Pembroke Ireton shrank from a display that might have brought about a scene." Stifled sobs made thick his breathing, and assuaging tears were rising to his eyes, but he controlled these evidences of emotion, and suddenly, and with a sort of set phrases, changed the discourse. "Your father must indeed be a happy man," he exclaimed with forced calmness, "despite his bereavement; yet had I known, dear madam, that my selfish outpourings would have led to this sorrowful subject, indeed I would have refrained."

66

Nay," replied Frances, not wholly sorrowful to me; and is not sympathy, warm sympathy, a consolation to you?"

"Never!” replied the painter vehemently. "For Art, long years ago, I gave up more than life and sight, though in my young, hot enthusiasm, I knew not what "I am not sure-perhaps not. Do not think me I relinquished; and to the last, Art shall have me-it ungrateful; but I will not speak of my own trouble claims even the dregs of my being." again. A little more wine, Mrs. Crawford; pray, half a "Pembroke Ireton has done enough for fame," said glass, and let me prepare an orange for you." Mr. Crawford.

A resolute host can always give the tone to conversa"Fame! Art has been my mistress; if she brought tion, and whatever were Pembroke Ireton's faults, want her handmaiden, Fame, I could not help it. It is of resolution was not one of them. Thus he once more a noisy busybody, hindering as often as helping. But drew round the discourse to anecdotes of travel and life is not long enough to do true service to Art. Surely Art; a portfolio of curious engravings was brought I do not grudge a pair of eyes, that have been but trea- forward, and shown to his appreciating guests; and the cherous servants since, five-and-twenty years ago, they marvellous Cellini cameo was once more admired, and were exposed for two nights and days to the glare of the effect of the relievo examined by lamplight. Frances Alpine snows. You wonder at this, my sweet young was holding it, but after one or two attempts to return friend: it is the brain that paints, not the eye and the it into the artist's own hand, she laid it on the table. hand." After a little while, the owner took it up, but he seemed awkward and confused, as if he knew not what to do with it. Presently he stammered out: "If Mrs. Crawford would do me the favor to accept this Minerva's head, as a slight memorial of these sittings, I should be more gratified than I can express."

"So valuable a gift!" exclaimed Frances. "Indeed, you do me too much honor, are too generous; how can I accept it?"

But Frances was overcome by a deeper emotion than wonder. That same perilous journey of early life which had laid the foundation of her father's affliction, had similarly affected the twin brother; and thus that apparently inseparable pair, whom yet strange circumstances had divided, seemed still to be mysteriously united by a common misfortune. "I am not wondering," she replied, trying to speak calmly; "I am only sorrowing, and thinking of a strange coincidence. My own dear "I must appeal to you, Mr. Crawford," returned the father is blind-thus afflicted in consequence of a simi- painter, "to use your influence, and not to disappoint lar accident to yours-being lost in the snows of Swit-me. I know no one else worthy to wear such a zerland when travelling in his youth in search of grand scenery."

"How strange!" mused the painter.

"You must know him," continued Frances in trembling tones: "you are formed to be-friends, companions to each other. Ah, you must know my father; he, too, loved Art most dearly."

"And now ?" asked Pembroke Ireton.

gem."

"It is a magnificent gift," replied Mr. Crawford; and it would be churlish indeed to refuse the acceptance of it. Yet you lay us under deep obligation."

"I am obliged," said Ireton, passing the cameo to Frances. "I can fancy it is sentient enough to know that it has only now found its true mistress."

"If I wear it, though," said Frances, holding forth