The next morning broke dark and gloomy. Our artist rose from his couch languid and unrefreshed. His face was pale and haggard, with dark circles round his eyes. What had transpired? Had he received a second visit from the headless lady? Not so. What then? He had slept indifferently, having been kept awake by his own distracting thoughts. If he chanced to close his eyes for a moment his peace was disturbed by the most chaotic and depressing dreams. Was he unwell? Did the fare at the inn disagree with him? He made no complaints. Then why this strange squeamishness—these wild chaotic dreams, through all of which one face in particular seemed always to the fore? Sometimes happy and smiling, full of life and health, then sad and downcast—again looking at him with pleading eyes, yet always the same face. Whose face this was we will leave our readers to conjecture.

"Bah!" soliloquised our artist, as he placed one foot upon the floor, "a chit of a girl like that, and at my age too."

He wasn't much past eight and twenty, true, but then the girl running in his thoughts was barely sixteen. In love? Not he. She was a dear, sweet child, it was true, and pure as an angel; but her education, her extreme youth, her position, her surroundings—no, no.

Now he was quite out of bed. His shaving water stood ready for him outside. He opened the door ajar, and took it in. Then placing the jug on the table, he proceeded to strop his razors. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and started.

"I'll tell you what it is, Vandyke, my boy," he said, accosting his own reflection in the glass, "you are looking worse than I thought. Come, cheer up, and make the best of things. It would never do for the members of the club to notice anything, and by putting two and two together, guess at the reason why. No, I must dissemble."

Now, men of the world are shrewd observers, and a very slight clue is often enough. Here, for instance, was a case of two young persons, both good looking, being thrown together under circumstances peculiarly favourable for a flirtation, being alone and unobserved. Well, what then? Need they necessarily fall in love with each other? Not necessarily perhaps, says the world, but in all probability they will. Time and opportunity alone being necessary to bring the matter about. So the world may perhaps not be so very far wrong in its deductions.

Having now mixed up an abundant lather, McGuilp rubbed it well over his chin and lower part of his face. Then inserting his razor in the hot water, he, with as steady a hand as possible under the circumstances, proceeded to reap the hirsute stubble from its native habitat until the operation was completed to his satisfaction. Having at length finished his toilet with even more than usual precision, he called up a cheerful look to his countenance, and joined the rest of the members at the breakfast-table, with an hilarity and jocoseness of manner which took them all in.

The breakfast was sumptuous as usual. The table groaned under every delicacy of the season, and our members, having seated themselves, did ample honour to the repast. A yule log blazed on the hearth, and a general air of comfort pervaded the inn, as if to make up for the murky weather without. Yet, despite these creature comforts, and the hearty appreciation of them by our members, there was one present whose appetite failed him. In spite of his forced hilarity, which he now found it difficult to sustain, for sad thoughts would obtrude themselves, our artist but pecked at his food.

The fumes of the eggs and bacon sickened him. The kippered herrings were an offence unto his nostrils. He loathed such gross cheer. His toast and roll were but nibbled at, his cup of coffee barely sipped, yet keep up appearances he must. So he talked a good deal of vapid nonsense, made trivial remarks about the weather, etc., which served to put the rest of the members off the scent, engrossed as each was with his own favourite dish. The professional eye of Dr. Bleedem, however, was more on the alert, and not so easily deceived.

"You are not looking so well this morning, Mr. McGuilp," he said, eyeing his patient critically.

Our artist hastened to assure him that he never felt better in his life. This remark, however, fell flat upon the doctor's ears, and he proceeded as if he had not heard him.

"You have eaten nothing. I notice that you only play with your food. Now, when a patient plays with his food, it is a sure sign that there is something wrong. You should take——"

"Oh! I don't want any medicine, thank you," interrupted McGuilp. "I assure you I am all right. A little loss of appetite, as you say; perhaps from the sudden change in the weather, which always affects me more or less. The fact is, I didn't sleep very well last night, and——"

"Yes, I can see that," continued Dr. Bleedem.

By this time the other members were getting interested, and our artist found himself suddenly the cynosure for all the scrutiny of the club. How he cursed the doctor's officiousness! Why couldn't he mind his own business?

"Yes, now you mention it, doctor, I can see that our young friend does not seem quite up to the mark to-day," remarked Mr. Oldstone.

"By his appearance I should say the young gentleman had something on his mind," suggested Mr. Hardcase. "His countenance seems sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his favourite author.

Then each member had something to say in turn, till our artist felt himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. In vain did he give himself a twisted pinch in the fleshy part of his leg under the table. The blush would rise, and there was no checking it. He fancied he could see the members give side glances one to the other, or trying to conceal a smile; but this may have been imagination.

Breakfast being now over, each member rose from the table, some gathering round the fire, one or two of them peering out into the murky gloom. Then Helen entered to clear away the breakfast things. She, too, seemed less lively than her wont, her face paler, and she went about her domestic duties mechanically, with downcast eyes.

"Why, Helen, my girl," exclaimed Dr. Bleedem, "you don't look as bright as usual. Have you been having a sleepless night? Have you been losing your appetite?"

The girl looked up confusedly, and a deep blush suffused her face and neck. The fame of Dr. Bleedem was great in the neighbourhood. She believed herself to be in the presence of a man who could read the secrets of her inmost soul, and that all attempts to mask them from his scrutinising gaze would be worse than useless.

"What has come to you young people of late, I don't know," continued Dr. Bleedem. "Now, here is Mr. McGuilp, he, too, has been losing his appetite, and suffering from insomnia."

Oh! how our artist wished that the ground would open at his feet and swallow him up. In vain he trod on his toes and turned his face towards the window, as if peering into the snow that was now falling fast. His ears continued to burn like fire, and all he could do, by mopping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, was inadequate to keep back the traitor blush.

"Oh! oh!" muttered Dr. Bleedem to himself, whilst gazing from one to the other. "Is that the way the wind lies?"

The members now began to look sideways, one at the other. One of them raised his eyebrows; another winked; a third suppressed a titter; but as this all took place behind our artist's back, who was still looking out intently at the snow, there was nothing to wound his sensibilities.

At length Mr. Oldstone broke the silence. "When are you thinking of beginning the copy of our Helen's picture, Mr. McGuilp?"

"I? Oh yes, just so," replied our artist, waking up out of a reverie. "Well, the fact is, we are most unfortunate in the weather. It is impossible to begin if it continues like this. Should it clear up later, I will at once set to work."

"Good. And now gentlemen, what do you all propose doing to while away the time? A rubber of whist, a game of chess, backgammon, or what?" inquired the antiquary.

After a little discussion, it was decided that Dr. Bleedem, Professor Cyanite, Mr. Crucible, and Mr. Oldstone, should form a party at whist. Mr. Blackdeed and Mr. Hardcase played a game of chess, while the poet and the painter, not being disposed to join in any game, retired into a corner together, and were soon deep in a discussion upon the arts of painting and poetry. A couple of hours passed away, and still the members were absorbed, each in his favourite pursuit, when the weather began to clear up, and the sun shone brightly.

This decided our artist to set about his allotted task; so breaking off the conversation with his poet friend, he repaired to the studio, and placing a clean canvas, the same size as that of the portrait, upon the easel, he commenced his copy; and here we will leave him to continue his task for the present.

Over a fortnight had passed since we left our artist at his work. The task was now completed. He had found it necessary to have one or two extra sittings from Helen herself on the copy, just to give more truth to it, as he said. However, as everything on this earth comes to an end, there was an end also to these sittings.

"Helen," said our artist to his model at the last, "I must go. My affairs call me back to Italy. I have been keeping my studio on all this time, and I have certain business to settle which will brook no delay."

Helen's countenance fell, and her lip quivered. Her eyes grew moist and downcast. In a voice that she endeavoured to render firm, she ventured to inquire: "And will it be for long, sir?"

"For very long, Helen? Perhaps for ever."

Helen had no answer to this. Her sobs were choking her. The tears stole silently down her cheeks, but she whisked them away with her handkerchief, and did her best to appear outwardly calm.

Our artist, too, felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes suffused with tears.

"Perhaps, sir," meekly suggested the girl, "when you have settled all your affairs abroad, you may think of taking a holiday, and be paying us a flying visit, just to see Mr. Oldstone and the other gentlemen, you know. I'm sure both father and mother will be glad to see you again."

"I am afraid not, Helen. I am afraid not," and our artist slowly and sadly shook his head.

"What! never—never again!" almost shrieked the child.

Here she broke down completely. All restraint and propriety flew to the winds. Nature, till now trampled upon and held in abeyance, at this point rebelled and relieved herself in a torrent of the bitterest sobs and tears.

"Helen! dear Helen! What is this?" cried McGuilp, running to her assistance, his own tears falling fast the while!

"Oh! what a brute I have been! Quick, rouse yourself. There are footsteps in the passage. Somebody is coming." Thus warned, there was a sudden mopping of eyes and blowing of noses, when the door opened, and Dame Hearty presented herself to ask if Helen could be spared to assist her in the kitchen.

"Oh! certainly," replied our artist, averting his face and busying himself with putting away his palette and brushes, whilst assuming a firm voice. "Yes," continued he, still turning his back, "I think I may say that I have finished with her now. This is the last sitting in fact. There is the copy I intend to present to the club. This one here is the first one, which I am going to keep for myself. Which of the two do you prefer, Dame Hearty?"

In this way he rattled on to hide his confusion. Helen had slipped noiselessly away, bathed her face in cold water, and returned to the kitchen.

"Well, sir," replied Dame Hearty, in answer to our artist's question, "I really don't know what to say. They are both so lovely, there's not a pin to choose between them."

Then, scanning our artist's countenance, she observed:

"You appear to have a bad cold, sir."

"I am afraid I have, Dame Hearty," said McGuilp; "the weather has been very uncertain, and I think I must have committed some imprudence."

"Let me make you a basin of gruel, sir. No? It's a capital thing, and you should keep out of all draughts, and——"

"And keep my bed, perhaps you'll tell me, my good woman," interrupted McGuilp. "No, no; I've no time to coddle. Do you know, Dame Hearty, I must be off to-morrow to London by the stage, as I have to return to Rome without further delay. Already I am long after my time."

"So soon! Why, you have paid us a short visit," exclaimed the hostess. "Well, sir, you knows best. All I can say is that my husband and I will be most glad to see you again, when next you be passing this way."

A knock at the door, and our host entered to ask if he might be allowed to see the copy.

"Certainly, my good host, here it is," said McGuilp.

Jack Hearty went into ecstacies over it, saying he didn't know which he liked best.

"Mr. McGuilp says he is off again to-morrow, Jack," began our hostess.

"Yes," broke in McGuilp. "What time does the stage start? Early? I'd better begin my packing at once," and off he went to his bedroom to make preparations.

The fact was, he wanted to be alone, for it was an effort to keep up a cheerful appearance with a sad heart. He locked himself within his room, and having collected together a few articles of clothing—enough to fill his valise, he threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up to meditation.

It will be remembered a few pages back that our artist accused himself of behaving like a brute towards his model. In this he did himself injustice. He had never deliberately set about gaining the affections of this simple village maiden. Any base design against her was the farthest from his thoughts. He admired her innocence and beauty, and wished that it might never lose its unsullied purity. He had never dreamed of actually falling in love with her, child as she was, and his conduct had been always that of a fond parent towards a pretty child. He little recked of any danger, either to her or to himself, but he found her beauty gain upon him day by day, till at length he was fairly in the toils. Yet he had never spoken to her of love. No, not a word. He would not. He had no desire that the girl should fall in love with him, nor would it be politic for him to fall in love with her. Wrong her he would not. Marry her he could not. For, besides hampering himself as a struggling artist with a wife and family, he dreaded quarrelling with almost the only relation he had living: a rich uncle; from whom he had expectations, and who would most decidedly consider that he had dragged the family name in the mire by marrying the daughter of a country innkeeper. In what way, then, it will be asked, did he think he had acted brutally towards the girl? This is what he blamed himself for: First, for allowing himself to be carried away with feelings of love towards the girl, however secretly; and then for incautiously allowing her to discover his secret. For, although he had not spoken of love, you may depend upon it that he had looked it, and it was not difficult for her to read in his burning glances the secret of his soul. Love leads to love. He, too, read in the soft eyes, the heaving bosom, the stifled sigh, the deepening blush, and other tell-tale signs that she loved him. Thus, each had learned the other's secret. They had spoken to each other with their eyes, and thus just as much mischief had been wrought as if the most courtly phrases had been used. He had not intended that his glances should be understood, but they were. Thus he blamed himself.

Matters being thus, there was no other remedy but flight. It would be a wrench, both for himself and for the girl, but the kindest thing in the end. In fact, it was his only course. So, having hurriedly finished his packing, he went downstairs to inform the members of the club of his intention.

It may easily be conceived how unwelcome was the news, for our artist had made himself extremely popular with all, and was looked upon as a great acquisition as a story-teller. Mr. Oldstone, in particular, exhausted all his powers of persuasion to yet delay his departure, but he found him obdurate. The good antiquary, who was an old bachelor, had grown to love our artist as a son; and now that the hour of parting had come, it rent him sore.

In the evening a farewell carousal was given in his honour, in which several bowls of punch were discussed; much tobacco smoked; a few speeches made; several anecdotes related; a song or two; besides some atrocious puns, with much laughter and witty conversation, until the utterance of all grew somewhat thick; and we regret to add that the worthy chairman, in his laudable attempts to do honour to his young protÉgÉ, had to be assisted upstairs and put to bed in a state decidedly mellow.