But the weight was not removed from Ellison’s feelings. And though he swept the shadow from his brow at the word of Clara, it did not pass from his heart. It was a great relief for the moment to know that he possessed the means of support for himself and wife until he could win his way to professional eminence; but this fact did not heal the wound his natural independence and sense of honor had received. Even in the language Clara had used as a means of encouragement, he saw rebuke, though he knew that it was given unconsciously.

The amount of Clara’s property, independent of her western land, was about five thousand dollars in good stocks, that were paying an annual dividend of six per cent. On the interest of this she had been living for some years. But an addition of three hundred dollars was not sufficient to meet the deficiency in Ellison’s income. Had the value of the stock been only two or three thousand dollars, the necessity for selling it would have been so apparent to Clara’s mind, as to cause her to suggest its disposal. But Ellison was not wrong in his supposition that his wife would think the mere additional income arising from the stocks all that he needed in his present embarrassment. But the sum of three hundred dollars was not enough for him at present, for he had no certain income of his own. He might succeed in earning, by means of his pencil, two, three or four hundred dollars a year for the next four or five years; but at their present rate of expense this would leave a serious deficiency. He could not say to his wife that even her three hundred dollars would not make his income sufficient, for that would be a too broad declaration of the fact, that, while actually unable to support himself he had assumed the additional expense of a wife. And a step so unreasonable could not be explained satisfactorily, except by bringing in the additional fact that this wife was reputed to be worth some twenty thousand dollars.

To the mind of the unhappy young man was presented only a choice of evils. He must lay open fully to his wife the whole truth in regard to his circumstances, or attempt to struggle on with debt and discouragement, working and hoping for a brighter day in the future when he could feel free and independent. He preferred the latter.

It was impossible for a scene such as took place between Ellison and his wife to transpire without leaving an impression behind. Clara’s thoughts, after she was alone, naturally recurred to what had passed, and she became aware of a pressure upon her feelings. She did not suspect her husband of improper motives in seeking her hand, yet the fact that he had proposed a marriage while his income was insufficient to support a wife, was indicative of a weakness in his mind, or a want of sound judgment and discretion, that it was not pleasant to think about. This conclusion was based on the supposition that he had made no calculations in regard to her property—an impression which, in the late interview, he had evidently designed to make; and she gave him the full benefit of this conclusion, for, in her eyes, he was incapable of any thing mean, selfish, or false.

On going to his studio, after the occurrence we have mentioned, Ellison was far from being happy. It did not take him long to resolve to struggle on, and thus seek to maintain his independence. That he would fall into debt and become seriously embarrassed, he knew; but that was something in every way to be preferred to further and deeper humiliation on the subject of his wife’s property. The little already suffered on this score was so exceedingly painful and mortifying, that he had no wish to encounter any thing more of a like nature. Earnestly he searched about in his mind for suggestions. Many things presented themselves. As a teacher of drawing he might do something to increase his income; but his professional pride came quickly to oppose this idea—moreover, in advertising or sending around cards, Clara must necessarily become aware of the fact, and she would doubtless think it strange, after the increase in his income, that he should be compelled to resort to such a course. To propose to a number of his friends to paint them at a temptingly low price, was next pondered over. But they would naturally ask, “Why this necessity? Had he not married a little fortune?”

While in this state of doubt and anxiety, the friend who had furnished him with a couple of hundred dollars came in. Ellison, the moment he saw him, had an instinctive impression that he had come to ask a return of the money, as the loan had been only a temporary one. And he was not wrong. After sitting and chatting for some five minutes, during all of which time the young artist felt his presence exceedingly embarrassing, he said—

“Well, Alfred. How are you off for money?”

The color rose in the face of Ellison at this question, and he answered with evident distress and confusion.

“Not very well, I’m sorry to say. I have been thinking of you for the last hour.”

“I thought you would have been flush enough by this time,” said the friend.

“So did I. But it is otherwise.”

“Then you have not bettered your condition so much as you anticipated,” was remarked, with a familiarity and coarseness that stung the young artist like an insult.

“How do you mean?” asked Ellison, his brow falling as he spoke.

The other looked surprised at the change his words had produced.

“What should I mean, except in a money point of view?”

Ellison was under obligation to the young man for money loaned. Moreover, at the time of borrowing the money, he had given out the idea that, after his marriage, he would no longer be troubled with the disease of empty pockets. All this was remembered at the moment, and, while it occasioned a feeling of extreme mortification, was in the way of his resenting the rude familiarity.

“You shall have your money to-morrow,” said the artist, lifting his eyes from the floor where they had fallen, and looking steadily at his young friend.

“If it’s any inconvenience,” remarked the latter, who felt the rebuke of Ellison’s manner, “it’s of no consequence just now. I am not pressed for money.”

“It will be none at all. I will bring it round to you in the morning.”

“I hope you’re not offended. I didn’t mean to wound your feelings,” said the friend, looking concerned. He felt that he had been indelicate in his allusions, and saw that Ellison was hurt.

“Oh no. Not in the least,” replied the latter.

“I hope you won’t put yourself to any inconvenience about the matter.”

“No; it will be perfectly convenient.”

Then followed a silence that was oppressive to both. A forced and distantly polite conversation followed, after which the visiter went away. As he closed the door of Ellison’s studio, the young artist clasped his hands together, while a distressed expression came into his face.

“Oh! what an error I have committed!” came almost hissing through his teeth, at the same time that his arms were flung about his head with a gesture of impatience and despair. “I have sold myself—I have parted with my manliness—my independence—my right to breathe the air as a freeman. And what have I gained?”

“A true-hearted, loving woman.” A gentle voice seemed to whisper these words in his ears as his mind grew calmer.

“I have paid too high a price,” fell almost audibly from his lips. “And even she, when she knows the whole truth, will despise and turn from me. What madness!”

For half an hour the young man remained in a state of great excitement. After that he grew calmer, and sitting down before his easel, took up his pallet and brushes and tried to work on a picture that he was painting. But his thoughts were too much disturbed.

“I have promised to return the two hundred dollars to-morrow morning, and I must keep my word to him if I steal the amount! When that obligation is removed we are no longer friends.”

As Ellison said this he threw down his pallet and brushes, and springing from his chair, resumed his hurried walk about the door of his room.

While thus occupied, a gentleman, accompanied by a lady, entered and asked to see some of his pictures.

“What is your price for a portrait of this size?” was asked after a number of paintings had been examined.

For a moment Ellison hesitated, and then replied—

“Fifty dollars.”

The gentleman and lady talked together, in a low tone, for a little while. Then the former said—

“We have two children, and think about having them taken. Including our own portraits we would want four. If we give you the order, what would you charge for the whole?”

“How old are the children?”

“Young. The eldest is but five.”

“You would want the children full length, I presume.”

“Why, yes. We would prefer that, if it didn’t cost too much. What is your price for a full length of a child?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“That would make the four pictures cost two hundred and fifty dollars.”

The lady shook her head.

“Could you not take the four for two hundred dollars?”

“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices, however, are moderate.”

“Money is always an object, you know.”

“Very true.”

“You say two hundred dollars, then.”

“Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.”

“Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many sittings will you require?”

“About half-a-dozen for each picture.”

The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the morning.

Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful.

Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent, however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said—

“Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?”

So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if half jesting—

“Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and pay me in advance for them.”

“Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious.

“Certainly. Painting is my profession.”

“I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?”

“Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never overstocked with cash.”

“I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?”

“For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.”

The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison.

“You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime, if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.”

Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But, as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.

[To be continued.

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BY HENRY B. HIRST.

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