"Not nearly so beautiful as the original,"
replied that lady in a low tone.

"Great Heaven!" cried Paolo, turning
round pale and fiercely, to start back in silent
amazement.

There was Eleanora, blushing, trembling,
timid, hanging a little back, and yet leaning on
the arm of the Countess, who smiled a sweet
sad smile of triumph.

"Be not angry, Signor Zustana," she said;
"it is all my fault. You excited my curiosity
relative to the original of this picture. You
said it existed. I immediately connected your
mysterious absences with something which
might explain all. Last night I followed you
home, I saw this beautiful creature, I
understood the motives of her seclusion. This
day I went to see her early; I forced my
way in. Half by threats, half by coaxing,
I extracted the truth from her. Signor
Paolo, your conduct is selfish; to save
yourself from imaginary evils you condemn
this angel to a prison life; you deprive
her of air and liberty—the very life of a
Sicilian girl; you prevent her from enjoying
the manifold blessings which God intended
for all; you deprive us of the satisfaction of
admiring a face so divine, and a mind so
exquisite. But then, you will say, she is
beautiful enough to excite love; she is simple
enough to excite a smile. Signor Paolo,
she is good enough to scorn the first word
of lawless passion; she is educated enough
to learn everything that becomes a lady,
and befits the wife of a man of genius, if
you will but let her mix with the world.
You are yourself miserable; your life is a
torment. I, the friend, the confidante, the
sister, of this innocent good girl, declare to
you that you must change your mode of
existence."

"Countess, you have conquered," cried
Zustana, who guessed the truth, and who
intuitively felt that her generous heart would
find, in devotion to Eleanora, means of
withdrawing her attention from her unfortunate
passion. "Do with her as you please. When
the Countess Clorinda, only child of my
generous patron, calls my wife her sister,
my wife is hers for life."

The result was natural. Paolo Zustana
ceased to be suspicious and restless. Eleanora
was universally admired; and when, ten years
later, the artist, after finishing the paintings
for the gallery of the Palace Bembo, took up
his residence permanently in Venice, his wife
had become an accomplished and unaffected
lady, capable of holding her position in the
elevated circles to which the genius of her
husband, and the friendship of Clorinda,
established her right to belong. Clorinda
remained true to her friendship all her life;
delighted and happy at being the ensurer
of permanent happiness to two loving hearts,
which, under the system of suspicion, fear,
and seclusion adopted by one of them, must
ultimately have been utterly wretched.

No one can be happy and useful in this
world, who is not of it. If it were not our
duty to be of it, we may be very sure we
should not be in it.

BEHIND THE LOUVRE.

"PEOPLE may wish to know why I pull up
here, and begin to play the fool. I am a
pencil manufacturer: nothing more. I know
that my pencils are good: look here! (Exhibits
a medal.) This medal was given to me,
as the manufacturer of these superlative
pencils, by the promoters of the Great
Exhibition in London."

With this preliminary address, a very
fashionable looking gentleman, who has
drawn up his carriage at the roadside behind
the Louvre in Paris, opens an address to a
number of persons who begin to gather about
him. His equipage is handsome; and people
wonder what he means by this curious
proceeding. Presently they perceive that in
the buggy there is an organ, and that the
individual perched behind the gentleman
fulfils the double functions of footman and
organ-grinder. They perceive also that
the servant wears a magnificent livery,
part of it consisting of a huge brass
helmet, from the summit of which immense
tricolor feathers flutter conspicuously in the
breeze. The gentleman suddenly rings a
bell; and forthwith the footman in the buggy
grinds a lively air. The crowd rapidly
increases. The gentleman is very grave:—he
looks quietly at the people about him, and
then addresses them a second time, having
rung the little bell again to stop his footman's
organ:—"Now I dare say you wonder
what I am going to do. Well, I will begin
with the story which led me to this charlatan
life—for I am a charlatan—there's no denying
it. I was, as you all know, an ordinary pencil
merchant; and, although I sold my pencils in
the street from my carriage-seat, I was
dressed like any of you. Well, one day, when
I was selling my pencils at a rapid rate, a low
fellow set up his puppet-show close by me—
and all my customers rushed away from me.
This occurred to me many times. Wherever
I drew up my carriage to sell my pencils in a
quiet way some charlatan came, and drew
all my customers from me. I found that my
trade was tapering away to a point as fine
as the finest point of my finest pencil;—and,
as you may imagine, I was not very pleased.
But suddenly I thought that if the public taste
encourages charlatans, and if I am to secure
the patronage of that public, I too must
become a charlatan. And here I am—a
charlatan from the tips of my hair to the heel
of my boot, selling excellent pencils for
forty centimes each, as you shall presently
see."

This second speech concluded in the most
serious manner, the gentleman produces from
the carriage seat a splendid coat embroidered