Leaning against the wall in the atelier of a young artist, stood a picture to which the finishing touches had that day been given. It was a face of singular loveliness, and seemed to be that of a young girl in the bloom of early womanhood, if the word bloom could be used in connection with a face so spiritual in its character. From the pale and rounded forehead, in whose transparent temples the delicate tracery of veins was distinctly seen, the hair flowed back in dark waves, closely confined at the back, with the exception of one or two long ringlets, which had escaped and lay upon the white neck. The eyes were of softest hazel, and into their far depths of sadness, calm, and heavenly thought, it seemed impossible to look. The delicate Grecian nose corresponded with the spiritual brow and eye, and it was only in the full, warm mouth, that the secret of an impassioned nature was revealed.

Gazing upon the picture with drooping eyelids and folded hands, sat a woman far past her early prime, wearing an ordinary dress of deepest mourning. There was something in the outline of her face, and in the beauty of her dark-hazel eye, which would have suggested to an observer the truth that she stood in the relation of mother to the fair original of the portrait before her, and the mourning garb might have aroused a suspicion of what was also true, that Death had claimed this treasure of her heart.

“And you will not sell me this picture?” she said in a broken voice, apparently resuming a conversation with the artist, who sat before his easel, at the farthest end of the room.

“No, madam, it is quite impossible,” was the coldly civil reply, as he touched and re-touched the work before him.

“But I have said that I would pay you all, and more than you usually demand for such a work, and—and—she was my child.”

“Let us once for all, madam, understand each other,” said the artist, laying down his brush and looking her full in the face—“it is true that I have taken and still do take likenesses for the paltry sum of fifty dollars, for I am young, with my fame yet to earn, and fame alone in our profession wins money. But this is no common picture—I had conceived the thought to execute a work on which I would lay out all my power, on which I would set the full seal of my genius, when I met your daughter. Her face attracted me; it was beautiful, it was singular in its character, it was what I wanted—at my request she sat to me, and for those sittings I paid her, as you well know, a liberal price. I have spent weeks over this picture, I have expended upon it all my energies, and for a purpose. You may not be aware that the artists’ exhibition takes place soon—my picture will be there—it must command attention; I shall be known and my fame will be established! Part with it now! No, not for ten times its value would I sacrifice all the hopes that hang upon that work.”

The woman had held her breath to listen to his words, and as his voice ceased, the long-suppressed emotion burst forth, and she passionately cried—

“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be yours!”

As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his calm voice—

“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject, concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.”

A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the noise and bustle of the crowded street.

She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles, he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter.

“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio, and offered the luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat. His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off her delicate gloves.

Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.

She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and her face, in the softness and delicacy of its outline, seemed almost childish. Golden curls clustered around her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom of her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled and snowy shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s day radiance given only to eyes of blue—her soft lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness. It was a face into which you could not look without the conviction that it had never known aught but sunshine and love—that the dark truths of the world were to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No deep tide of feeling, no storm of strong passions had left its impress there; yet the face so exquisite in its infantile loveliness, was not without its signs of latent power. There was often a deepening of the light within those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the full lips, that were a prophecy of a higher type of beauty for her maturer womanhood.

And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although he had not yet told her of it save by looks and tones perhaps as unmistakable as words. He loved her fondly, almost passionately, next to himself and fame. Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he was ignorant of his incapacity for a great and generous love. Possessed of a good education, and a fine share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city, with no friends but these and his remarkably handsome person, filled with the determination of making to himself a name. Accident had brought him into contact with a few influential persons, and he soon became known among a certain clique as a young man whom it were well worth while to patronize.

He had been in the city a little more than two years, and had painted several portraits in good families, when he met with Emily Hastings, the daughter of one of his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye, her winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position in society was a mark for his ambition. Well assured of his growing love for her, he was also far from insensible to the advantages which a union with her would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth and high-standing, was free from the weak prejudices of many of his class, and Edgar knew that were his daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education and character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy, even though penniless. Could he win Emily’s love, he felt that her father’s approval was sure, and in all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.

But fame seemed to him yet afar off; to hear himself spoken of as “a young artist who was remarkably successful in likenesses”—“a young man of considerable promise,” was galling to his vanity, and he resolved to execute some work that should claim attention. While he was thinking of this, unable to fix upon any subject, he met, as we already know, Elise Revere. That face of such strange beauty, line by line his skillful pencil could copy; he could catch as he gazed upon them living before him, the spiritual brow, and the eye’s deep poetic thought—all that only a master-hand could create upon canvas. The sittings were long and many, but the artist was enchanted with his success—his ambitious dreams grew brighter, and he almost felt the laurel on his brow. Days and nights were occupied with thoughts of this new work, and the cold selfishness of his ambition cannot be better shown than by the fact, that when the illness and death of poor Elise reached his ears, the involuntary first thought was, “My picture was in time!”

And this was the being—his selfish nature unrevealed in his good-natured face and cordial manner, who sought to win the young, child-like heart of Emily. Few could have resisted the fascination of his presence—the mien deferential, tender—so eloquent of admiration, and finally of love. Emily did not at least; she thought him good, noble and gifted, and then he was so handsome, and beauty is a powerful pleader to the heart of seventeen. She soon learned to love the books and music he had praised, to look for his smile amid the crowd, and be sad if she met it not—to treasure the flowers he had given and the words he had whispered over them, and at last to be pensive or gay, happy or sorrowful, in harmony with the music of those sweet chimes that usher in the morning of a first love.

The sittings for Emily’s portrait had been a happy period to both the artist and his beautiful subject—hours of pleasant interchange of thought and feeling, memorable steps in the rosy pathway they were now treading—and this day in especial had been so delightful, with its thousand nothings of conversation, to which time and circumstance give such a value, that an unconcealed shadow of regret fell upon each face, as Miss Hastings’ servant announced that the carriage waited.

“I believe,” said Emily, as she tied the little white chip hat under her dainty chin, “that you told papa yesterday there would be but one more sitting before the picture was finished.”

“Only one more,” replied Edgar, in a tone which sent a richer bloom into Emily’s cheek, and as fearful of betrayal she turned away her head, her wandering eyes fell upon the portrait of Elise Revere, from which the carelessly fastened covering had fallen.

“Oh, how beautiful, how adorably beautiful!” she exclaimed, pressing eagerly forward, “and is it yours, Edgar?”

He looked into her glowing face, and his heart swelled proudly as he answered:

“Yes, I have just finished it for the coming exhibition; it has occupied me for some time, and no one has yet seen it, but I intended showing it to you; do you like it?”

“Like it? I could look forever into those wonderful eyes, and upon that calm, noble forehead. Is it a portrait?”

“No!” came from the artist’s false lips, “it is an ideal work.”

How unworthy was he of the look of proud delight, of reverent worship written on the pure, girlish face upturned to his! How unworthy was he of the tears that quivered on the long, golden lashes—the tremulous tones of that low voice! Yet with a quickened pulse, he received the incense of her enthusiasm, for it was a delicious foretaste of the homage yet to be paid his name—a drop from the full beaker of fame for which he thirsted.

“I could almost envy you,” said Emily, “the visions of loveliness that must have come to you ere you could have called into being so glorious a creation.”

“It was from the recollection of much, very much of beauty that I wrought the work,” answered Edgar. “I called into it the choicest elements of grace I had ever known. Do you not recognize the mouth?” he added, turning to Emily with a peculiar smile.

Unconscious as she was of her own charms, it was impossible not to recognize in the form and expression of those full, sweet lips, a likeness to her own. False Edgar! it seemed to Emily a most delicate tribute of admiring love, and it filled her heart with a strange delight, to know that she was remembered amid his visions of beauty, that she realized even in part his dreams of the ideal. She did not answer, it was not a time for words. The consciousness of Edgar’s interest in her, now more fully revealed than ever, came fraught with still thought to her spirit.

And Edgar was silent, feeling for the first time sure that the affections of the young being beside him were his own; for it was but a part of the selfishness of his nature to refrain from declaring his passion in direct terms, until he could read in the face of the guileless Emily that it were a welcome avowal. For a few moments they stood gazing on the portrait, then Emily lifted her happy eyes for one moment to his face, and with a slight inclination of her head, passed from the room.

Gladsome morning and tempestuous night are not in greater contrast than were the light foot-fall and joyous spirit of Emily, to the lingering step and heavy heart of her who had so short a time preceded her. Both had come from the contemplation of the same picture—and to one its memory was as a talisman of love and happiness, and to the other of anguish and despair.

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