beauty of the scene burst upon her at once,
and Rosamund asked if she were tired.
"No. One might bid the cares of the world
defiance here," she said, more freely, and her
dull face brightened into enthusiasm.

"Listen!" exclaimed Rosamund, raising
her hand. The air was hushed about them;
but from the distance there was a dull,
surging sound—thousands of tramping feet,
toiling hands, fretting brains; thousands of
household fires; thousands of souls beginning
their day of life; thousands nearing its
uncertain close.

"We cannot rid ourselves of these echoes;
and I, for one, should miss them if we could,"
said Rosamund." I like to be in the midst
of my kind, and would fain have troops
of friends; but come—we are forgetting
Murillo."

She ran up the steps and opened a glass
door into the hall, where a quantity of plants,
covered with bloom and ranged on a lofty
pyramidal stand, made a miniature conservatory
and a delicious perfume.

"You shall see the picture first, and then
I must introduce you to my Aunt Carry,"
Rosamund said, as she guided them rapidly
through two rooms into a long gallery,
lighted from the roof and covered on all
sides with paintings of various degrees of
beauty. She stopped suddenly, and pointed.
"There it is." The Murillo, the gem of the
collection, and a picture that a king might
glory to possess. None of the three valued
themselves on connoisseurship, but they knew
how to admire. Valentine did not once think
of his divinity while he was looking at it;
but, when he turned his eyes from the child-
saint of the great painter to her beautiful
face, he discovered that they had both the
same warm, sun-ripened complexions, and
the same dark hair, rippled with golden
lights.

"Here are two Claudes, Valentine: do you
like landscapes? These look blue and cold to
me, after coming out of the sunshine," said
Rosamund; "and I even prefer this
Gainsborough. I suppose my national preference
is heretical; but I have not an orthodox
taste, and cannot admire by rule. There are
two or three pictures here I dislike—so stiff
and wooden; and, as for the Dutch Boors
and Frows with vegetables, I should like to
exile them to the kitchen."

Valentine was very quiet. He went slowly
from picture to picture, drinking in draughts
of beauty avidly. His thin face was pale
with eagerness and excitement—not
altogether a pleasant excitement. He was thinking,
what call had he to put brush to canvas,
with all these grand old rivals in the field?
He had a dismal feeling as if inspiration
would fail him, and he should never do
anything worthy. Rosamund mistook his silence
for apathy. She thought to witness a burst of
enthusiasm; whereas there lay two checks on
Valentine—her presence, and his incapacity
to express his admiration in sufficing words.
He had also the rare merit of keeping
silence, rather than utter foolish, unmeaning
rhapsodies.

Rosamund seated herself on one of the
crimson damask ottomans with which the
gallery was furnished; and, loosening the
strings of her bonnet, waited until her two
companions had made their round of the
paintings. Valentine returned again and
again to the Murillo." Do you think you
shall ever equal that?" she asked kindly.
The lad flushed and shook his head, while his
sister Mary looked at him with such devoted
affection!

"Valentine shall not be a copyist, except
of nature," she said; "he must not look on
dead men as rivals."

When the two Unwins at length made a
move to go, Rosamund said they must first
be introduced to Aunt Carry. Mary would
gladly have evaded this further ordeal, but
Rosamund said: "O, pray come, Aunt Carry
likes to know my friends." Mary tried to
mention something about its being a pity to
intrude on Aunt Carry, but Rosamund did
not hear; so there was nothing left for her
and Valentine, but to follow whither she led.
Opening a door near the flower-stand, she
cried, "O, here she is! Aunt Carry, I have
brought two of my fellow-students at the
school of design to make your acquaintance."

An elderly lady who was sitting at a piece
of tapestry-work in the bay-window, came
forward rustling in rich silk, and gave them
a gracious reception.

"You are going to be a painter? That is
a glorious vocation!" the old lady observed.
"I should like you to take a portrait of
Rosamund for me."

Valentine reddened and glanced at the
bewildering beauty who leant laughing over
Aunt Carry's chair.

"He has not begun to practise yet," she
said, "he is only a boy—I am not sure that I
shall let him try his 'prentice hand on me.
How old are you, Valentine?"

Mary answered for him, "He was sixteen
last May."

That "only a boy," sounded cruelly
mortifying to poor Valentine, and made him feel
more shy and awkward than ever. Aunt
Carry supplied the most of the conversation
by introducing Mary to her tapestry work—
a gaudy Arab on a white horse, dancing on
its hind legs—and asking her if she were
fond of that employment.

Rosamund sauntered about the room, now
stopping a moment to chirrup to her singing
birds in a large gilt cage, and then to gather
a few sprigs of myrtle and geranium. These
flowers made sunshine in the Unwins' dull
little parlour for a week after.

Suddenly, there was heard the rattle of
wheels, and Aunt Carry exclaimed: "My
dear love, who can this be?" A carriage
rolled past the windows, and a gentleman