lover by her side, was not more blessed than
Valentine in that narrow room, munching
thick bread and butter before his easel, with
Mary watching him.

"What a face hers is! How Murillo
would have painted her!" said the lad, with
a sigh, as he leaned back in his chair and
contemplated what even Mary felt to be a
very abortive sketch of her features. There
was no need to mention the magic name.
Whenever Valentine spoke of her, Mary knew
he meant Rosamund Wilton. "She had the
glorious complexion of the painting, and dark
blue eyes, not a common union, but the
perfection of beauty. I say, Mary, what a
divine Magdalen she would make, with all
that singular hair loose! I should like to
have the chance of taking her portrait."

Poor, infatuated Valentine! that face was
to be the inspiration of every beautiful
thought he ever drew; that face the keynote
by which he struck the chords of fame!
Mary was not jealous that he should give
twenty thoughts to Rosamund, for one he
gave to her; she had a practical as well as
an instinctive knowledge that mothers and
sisters never, or very rarely, are to brothers
and sons, what brothers and sons are to
them.

"And you thought that strange gentleman
was a lover; what made you think so, Mary?
You women are very sharp," Valentine said
presently, neglecting his tea and returning
to his sketch. "He is ever so much older
than she is, and has lost an arm besides."

"What does that matter? Do you think
I should like you any the less if you lost
both arms? Come Val, drink this and eat
some more bread. Are you going to the
school with my father to-night?"

"Yes. Did you ever notice the beautiful
line from her ear to her shoulder? I
wonder whether I can draw it."

Valentine spent a few minutes trying to
accomplish the impossible, then cast down
his pencil, and applied himself in earnest to
his meal. The lad showed a wholesome
appetite and keen according to his time of
life, which testified that he was taking his first
attack of heart-disease very favourably.
Mary quite enjoyed seeing him eat so
vigorously, and smiled—her smile was very
improving to her face, it was like sunshine to a
level uninteresting landscape.

"What is the matter? What is pleasing
you so much?" Valentine asked, regarding
her cheerfully.

"I don't think you will pine for love, Val,"
was the reply. "You like to look at Miss
Wilton; but you don't sicken and refuse
your food when a successful worshipper
appears on the scene. You do not rail at
Sir Everard, or long to extinguish him, like a
lover in a book."

"I could never marry her, Mary; now
could I?" said the lad, with a solemnity that
would have been nothing short of ludicrous
to anybody but her. "But what an angel-face
she has! Since I have been accustomed
to see her, I have grown in mental stature;
a perfectly beautiful woman is a grand
revelation. There, Mary, I won't talk any more
nonsense! I hope she will be very happy;
but, as I live, she is my first love and will
be my last!"

Valentine drank off the remainder of his
tea with an air, and returned the cup to his
sister, who then went down-stairs. But,
being left alone, the lad's mood changed. He
leaned down, with his elbows on his knees
and his head between his hands, thinking
gloomily. A queer medley of feelings run
riot in most very young hearts; but
Valentine's was a good heart—generous,
honest, almost religious. Rosamund Wilton
had been to him as much an ideal as his
beautiful art; and he could still adore her
afar off, though the stranger might
appropriate her to himself as his wife. Still he
could think of her as the chiefest amongst
women, as the rose is amongst flowers. Yet,
when his father summoned him at seven
o'clock to accompany him to the school, and
he passed Mary in the door-way of the
parlour, she thought his eyes looked red and
burning, as if they had paid a libation of
tears to some secret pain. Sometimes we
will be very heroic, and try to cheat ourselves
into the belief that we are not so very much
disappointed after all, by the loss that is
cutting our hearts in twain. Perhaps
Valentine had been striving to deal thus
untruly with himself.

           CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

ROSAMUND was innocent as a child in
all intention of what she did; but, having
taken a fancy to the Unwins, she would have
them come to the Abbey again and again:
Mary to enjoy the summer beauty of the
gardens, and Valentine to paint her
portrait. This was a dangerous ordeal for an
imaginative mind like poor Val's. He drank
in a subtle inspiration from her looks, words,
gestures; she treated him with a rather
peremptory familiarity; called him by his
Christian name; gave him flowers, lent him
books, and said once, she wished she had such
a brother. As for thinking that the young
enthusiast might repay her kindness with
love, she would as soon have suspected the
mendicant in the street of lifting his eyes to
her.

Sir Everard probably saw more clearly
than she did, what might happen; for his
demeanour to Valentine, though kind, was
stiff and stately; for which the lad liked him
little, as it may be supposed. Mention has
been made of the portrait that he was painting
of her—a business which brought them
frequently into proximity; for Valentine
was a painstaking, and by no means, in this
instance, a rapid workman. He had his
easel in the picture gallery, and there she sat