The next morning found Emily and her father in the atelier of Edgar Loring. The artist was not in, but the boy in attendance, to whom they were well known, brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate that Edgar was not present, for Emily, unpracticed at concealment, found it impossible not to betray emotion when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at the same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour when she saw it first. But speedily she regained her composure, and the artist soon entered the room. He looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder yet, when he saw how they were engaged.

“You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining your very beautiful picture in your absence,” said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has a very earnest desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I should be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?”

Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged, his love strengthened by this mark of preference, and; after a short silence, during which countless thoughts; hurried through his brain, he replied—

“I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition, and I had formed no design as to its subsequent disposal, but I cannot decline the honor which you and Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers. I would wish, however, previously to giving it up, that it might be exhibited according to my intention—the rooms open on Monday next.”

Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to sail in a little more than two weeks—they must have the picture at that time if ever, and he said:

“I am aware that this is a painting of a high order, and I am willing to pay you whatever you demand, but I wish immediately to become its possessor. It can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but at the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take it, if at all.”

Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in the elegant saloons of Mr. Hastings, his picture would be seen by quite as many critical and appreciative eyes as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that the fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation of the greatest value.

The arrangement was at length completed, and Emily and her father departed, leaving Edgar flushed and excited with what seemed his wonderful success. He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a little cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity of her conscious love in the presence of her father, and proud and joyous in the near approach of the triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed the day in new visions of glory for the future.

That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that Elise Revere kneeled before him, with her pale face upturned to his, pleading him to have pity on her lone and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full moonlight flooded the room, and lay brightest on a table by his couch, where bloomed in a vase rare flowers—the gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing the flowers to his lips, crushed down the remorseful feeling which had almost struggled into life, and rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him.

The days passed away, and Edgar did not see Emily—she had gone into the country with a sick friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home, a beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise Revere in the exhibition room, had attracted crowds of admirers, and the young artist’s praises had been spoken by many lips. During this time also, Emily had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and gratitude could hardly find expression. She had insisted that the sum raised by herself and her few Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose to which it was first appropriated, and Emily felt that it was best to allow their hearts this consolation.

The morning of Monday had come, and with it came also the beautiful portrait of Elise. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for one brief hour, Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture. Sad, sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger face had grown very dear, and it was with a mournful regret that she looked her last into those deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice blessed. Many emotions were weighing at her heart, for she felt how far better would it have been that her young head had been laid beneath the green sod that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting heart should have been buried in the cold selfishness of Edgar Loring’s soul.

The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf—passengers were hurrying on board, captain and mate were vociferating orders, flags were flying, waters glancing—all wore the bright and joyous air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of grays came dashing down to the pier—Mr. Hastings and Emily alighted, and were followed from the box by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board ship.

Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched by the tears which gushed from the happy eyes of that mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which murmured thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted, Emily and Mrs. Revere, like the friends of years, and not as acquaintances of a few short weeks, and over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in the early summer over the lone grave of Elise, and sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy and warm upon the pale marble that bore her name.

Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian and her aged parent, and to care for the much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells, and the father and daughter entered their carriage and drove away.

When Emily reached home, she found an elegant note from Edgar Loring, requesting permission to call upon her that evening. Ah! a few short weeks ago, how her heart would have fluttered at those words! Now, going up to her room she seated herself at her beautiful escritoir, and penned the following words—

In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left the city—he had gone to seek his fortunes in the far South.

A TRAGEDY.

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BY CAROLINE C——.

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