A mass of things in violent action, trampling
chargers, frighted oxen, furious men, crimson
dust, blue trees, green heavens, a rushing cataract,
a peaked bridge, all these, and more, much
more, though present, were scarcely seen, for
Polly's eyes were nailed upon the prominent
figure, a noble damsel on a palfrey, which looked
as if painted in Irish butter, who, pausing in
her headlong flight as the shock of arms reached
her, reined round her cowslip-coloured steed,
and, with wild ringlets and dilated eyes, seemed
to ask counsel of the spectator what upon earth
she should do?

And well might Miss Humpage involuntarily
open her blue eyes, for not only was the countenance
Polly's own, but it was executed with a
precision unsurpassable in art! Nor was the
minute finish of the portrait one whit less
extraordinary than the resemblance of feature. In
that one little gem of a face genius had been
content to vindicate itself; but that so thoroughly,
that all the surrounding extravagance and
impossibility were absolutely forgotten or
overborne. Quentin Matsys—Arthur Haggerdorn—
other little boys—love's Royal Academy possesses
the finest schools of art in the world!

For a few seconds, Polly stood gazing as if in
a dream; then, awaking, found herself alone.
Not quite alone, for the young artist was kneeling
at her feet, kissing the little passive hand,
exclaiming in a tongue I dare not offer to render
in the original (how Polly managed to interpret
it I never could understand), that she was, had
been, ever would be, his life, his soul, his treasure,
star, angel, and the holder of so many other
honorary and incongruous appointments, that
it is to be hoped some, at least, were sinecures.
Passionately inquired if Polly believed he could
have quitted England without one gracious
look? Explained that, when Polly ceased to
appear at the window, he, in dread of having
offended, vowed never again to court that
happiness, until he had prepared a proof (behold
it!) that he needed not another glance to
impress her darling image for ever, and for ever, on
his soul!

That the Señor Torre-Diaz, though given to
sleep in studios, was awake to every generous
impulse, had a pretty taste for art, and was his
poor mother's only friend.

That the señora—(caprice itself)—liked the
fun of sitting for somebody else's picture beyond
everything, flinging herself and dress into the
most graceful attitudes and bewitching folds,
and half crying, like a spoiled child, that English
manners forbad the possibility of her being a
witness of the surprise Miss Humpage must
evince on seeing the finished work.

The rest of Mr. Haggerdorn's observations
were couched in the purest dialect of the Low
Countries, which I don't speak.

As for Polly, her feelings—so far as they were
susceptible of analysis—included a sense of
recovering from the concussion of a shower-
bath, dancing a saraband, witnessing a disorderly
review, and stretching over a precipice at the
risk of her neck, to catch the accents of an
Æolian harp. Taking her situation in the
general, Miss Humpage can only be likened to the
commandant of a fortress, who has crammed it
with brave defenders, but forgotten his commissariat.
The pride and resentment stored up in
Polly's heart, were altogether disproportioned
to the gentler thoughts now crowding back, nay,
even peeping out, esurient as ever, from their
original cells, as though they had never been
out ? Why, therefore, prolong a hopeless defence?
As well surrender frankly; at least, so far as to
acknowledge the commanding position of the foe.
For there was a further consideration.

Polly-my-Lamb did not take away her hand ;
but she looked down with a sort of grave, sweet
pity, upon the young suitor; then gently bade
him rise and follow her.

He did so, mechanically, hardly conscious of
what was passing, till he found himself standing
in front of the picture of a benevolent-looking
old gentleman, in a brown coat and powdered
wig, who appeared to smile on both of them.

Polly raised her hand.

"There is my answer," she said, her tears
falling. "I have sworn to him, before Heaven,
a calm, irrevocable vow. By virtue of that
pledge, I may never marry until my father's
murder is avenged, nor then, unless it be the
man who avenges it."

"You promise zat?" asked young Haggerdorn,
with startling abruptness. "To be ze wife of
him who shall track your father's murderers?"

''At least, of no one else," replied Polly,
firmly, but mournfully.

"Ah! promise, promise! All, zen, shall be
most well!"

"Well?"

"Smile not, dear young dames. There is
power, I in my withinmost spirit believe, to do
zis thing. Love can everything contrive. Shall
he not take one prisoner? I love you. Good.
I am painter. Again, I love you. Good. I am
avenger. Now, promise!"

Polly looked at him in amazement.

"You!" said she, incredulously; yet gradually
inclining, as she gazed on those bright, animated
features, to partake his enthusiasm. "Alas! Mr.
Haggerdorn, what can you have learned of the
haunts and hiding-places of crime? How can
you, young, strange, inexperienced almost as
myself, hope for success, where men, bold and
cunning, trained to the work of detection, have
owned themselves defeated? How——"

"Only promise," reiterated the young man.
(She hesitated.) "Not to me— not to Arthur
Haggerdorn; but to him, young or old, or little,
or poor, who shall fulfil zis dutiful desire. For
the love of Heaven, promise."

Polly surrendered at discretion.

"I do promise," said she. Then, with a
pitiful certainty of the disappointment he was
incurring, when his excitement should have
subsided, she added, "Reflect, however, for one