into the garden; passing through it, he
inquired of a servant who was busy arranging the
furniture, whether the young lady had come
down yet?

"What young lady, sir?" asked the man,
with an appearance of surprise.

"The young lady who dined here last night."

"No young lady dined here last night, sir,"
replied the man, looking fixedly at him.

The painter said no more: thinking within
himself that the servant was either very stupid
or had a very bad memory. So, leaving the
room, he sauntered out into the park.

He was returning to the house, when his host
met him, and the usual morning salutations
passed between them.

"Your fair young friend has left you?"
observed the artist.

"What young friend?" inquired the lord of
the manor.

"The young lady who dined here last night,"
returned Mr. H.

"I cannot imagine to whom you refer,"
replied the gentleman, very greatly surprised.

"Did not a young lady dine and spend the
evening here yesterday?" persisted Mr. H.,
who in his turn was beginning to wonder.

"No," replied his host; "most certainly not.
There was no one at table but yourself, my lady,
and I."

The subject was never reverted to after this
occasion, yet our artist could not bring himself
to believe that he was labouring under a delusion.
If the whole were a dream, it was a dream
in two parts. As surely as the young lady had
been his companion in the railway carriage,
so surely she had sat beside him at the dinner-
table. Yet she did not come again; and everybody
in the house, except himself, appeared to
be ignorant of her existence.

He finished the portrait on which he was
engaged, and returned to London.

For two whole years he followed up his
profession: growing in reputation, and working
hard. Yet he never all the while forgot a
single lineament in the fair young face of his
fellow-traveller. He had no clue by which to
discover where she had come from, or who she
was. He often thought of her, but spoke to no
one about her. There was a mystery about the
matter which imposed silence on him. It was
wild, strange, utterly unaccountable.

Mr. H. was called by business to Canterbury.
An old friend of his—whom I will call Mr.
Wylde—resided there. Mr. H., being anxious
to see him, and having only a few hours at his
disposal, wrote as soon as he reached the hotel,
begging Mr. Wylde to call upon him there. At
the time appointed the door of his room opened,
and Mr. Wylde was announced. He was a
complete stranger to the artist; and the meeting
between the two was a little awkward. It
appeared, on explanation, that Mr. H.'s friend had
left Canterbury some time; that the gentleman
now face to face with the artist was another Mr.
Wylde; that the note intended for the absentee
had been given to him; and that he had obeyed
the summons, supposing some business matter
to be the cause of it.

The first coldness and surprise dispelled, the
two gentlemen entered into a more friendly
conversation; for Mr. H. had mentioned his name,
and it was not a strange one to his visitor. When
they had conversed a little while, Mr. Wylde
asked Mr. H. whether he had ever painted, or
could undertake to paint, a portrait from mere
description? Mr. H. replied, never.

"I ask you this strange question," said Mr.
Wylde, "because, about two years ago, I lost
a dear daughter. She was my only child, and I
loved her very dearly. Her loss was a heavy
affliction to me, and my regrets are the deeper
that I have no likeness of her. You are a man
of unusual genius. If you could paint me a
portrait of my child, I should be very grateful."

Mr. Wylde then described the features and
appearance of his daughter, and the colour of her
eyes and hair, and tried to give an idea of the
expression of her face. Mr. H. listened
attentively, and, feeling great sympathy with his grief,
made a sketch. He had no thought of its being
like, but hoped the bereaved father might
possibly think it so. But the father shook his head
on seeing the sketch, and said, "No, it was not
at all like." Again the artist tried, and again
he failed. The features were pretty well, but
the expression was not hers; and the father
turned away from it, thanking Mr. H. for his
kind endeavours, but quite hopeless of any
successful result. Suddenly a thought struck the
painter; he took another sheet of paper, made
a rapid and vigorous sketch, and handed it to
his companion. Instantly, a bright look of
recognition and pleasure lighted up the father's
face, and he exclaimed, "That is she! Surely
you must have seen rny child, or you never
could have made so perfect a likeness!"

"When did your daughter die?" inquired the
painter, with agitation.

"About two years ago; on the 13th of
September. She died in the afternoon, after a few
days' illness."

Mr. H. pondered, but said nothing. The image
of that fair young face was engraven on his
memory as with a diamond's point, and her
strangely prophetic words were now fulfilled.

A few weeks after, having completed a
beautiful full-length portrait of the young lady, he
sent it to her father, and the likeness was
declared, by all who had ever seen her, to be perfect.

Among the friends of my family was a young
Swiss lady, who, with an only brother, had
been left an orphan in her childhood. She was
brought up, as well as her brother, by an aunt;
and the children, thus thrown very much upon
each other, became very strongly attached. At
the age of twenty-two the youth got some
appointment in India, and the terrible day drew
near when they must part. I need not describe
the agony of persons so circumstanced. But
the mode in which these two sought to mitigate
the anguish of separation was singular. They
agreed that if either should die before the young