praise was not very lofty in sound, but
Valentine knew its value. "It will do!" said she,
emphatically. "Go on and conquer, my
brother!"

He turned about and gave her a kiss,
exclaiming gaily, but without a trace of
conceit, "I think it will do, Mary!"

And then the pair, in the highest
good-humour, betook themselves to the little
round table in the corner, and ate their
dinner silently, the Sybil watching them with
inspired eyes, which did not look much as if
they were meant to contemplate such a
homely scene.

I know not whether it was a picture that
would please generally. It was a single
figure, without any theatrical accessories or
startling effects. The eye settled at once
upon the face, and lingered there with a
loving sense of beholding a beauty that
satisfied heart and soul fully. It was woman,
and it was goddess; it was purity and
strength; it was earth and heaven
combined. The idea had been distinctly
conceived, and executed faithfully. The flesh
tints were pure, warm, and rich as if life-
blood glowed through the face; the lips
breathed; the hair floated abroad as if air
stirred in it. The manipulation of every, the
minutest, part was exquisitely delicate and
expressive. The white drapery that covered,
without concealing, the swelling outlines of
throat and bosom, was painted with as tender
and thoughtful a care as the soft bloom of
the cheek, or the dewy brilliancy of the eye;
the clasp of the girdle gleamed like jewels
rarely set, and the golden armlets bound the
supple arms as if they were raised from the
polished flesh. The back-ground was all
dark, except above the head, whence a light
shone down upon the face as if out of Heaven,
and by this light the figure was seen. I
cannot tell whether it transgressed any of the
conventional rules of art; but, whether or
not, it was a picture to which the gaze would
wander again and again, and from which the
mind would carry away a thought of beauty
never to be forgotten.

Valentine's painting-room was besieged
many times that day by his young fellow
artists, who were not perhaps such enthusiasts
as Mary in his behalf; for before night,
under their frosty comments and predictions
his hopes and dreams lost much of their
glow. They were not curious or jealous—
these are not the vices of the careless,
thriftless tribe—but they were dubious, and
thought to lessen his disappointment, if
ultimately he were disappointed, by not flattering
too much now

"You expect to get it into the Academy
Exhibition, Val; but you won't," said one
lugubrious long-haired individual, who had
not found his historical paintings, twelve feet
by fourteen, very acceptable to the Hanging
Committee. "You won't, and I'll tell you
why: the old fogies are so afraid of a new
fellow who is likely to cut them out, that
they'll never let you in.''

"Nonsense!" cried Mary, good-humouredly.
"You youngsters have too high a conceit of
yourselves; to talk of any of you cutting
out the old names! Make names for yourselves,
and let other people's abide in good
odour!"

Mr. Sharpe put up his eyebrows at this
little tirade, and told Mary she did not know
the petty feelings rife in the world.

"Val and I will not listen to croakers!"
retorted she. "You will learn to think
better of human nature every day longer
that you live: I do. Val's picture will
make him no enemies, and no rivals, I'm
sure!"

"I wish it may not, and that it may be
accepted and well hung; but look how I
have been treated! For five years running
have I sent in a noble work or two, and they
have never exhibited one! But I'll keep on
plaguing 'em till they do; for I know why
I am kept out;" and Mr. Sharpe looked
grimly significant, as he formed with his
lips a certain awful name, at which both
Valentine and Mary laughed. "It is the
great Mac, and nobody else, who keeps
me out!" added the luckless artist, piqued
by the rallying laugh. "If one of my
pictures gets hung on those venal walls—
which I don't expect—his reputation will
evaporate like a puff of smoke from a bad
cheroot. Miss Mary, I am athirst,—is the
kettle boiling?"

The kettle was boiling; so Mary made tea
to console the unphilosophical painter, who
afterwards helped the frame-maker, who
came up from the little shop, to fix Sybil
in her frame. The picture remained in
the studio about a week longer, and was
then sent in for the approval of the
Committee, who, to Mr. Sharpe's surprise and
indignation, accepted it, and gave it an
excellent position on their "venal walls."
Valentine bore his success with modest
exultation.

"We shall see Rome yet, Mary!" cried he.

"Surely we shall!" was her answer; but
Mr. Sharpe, whose private disappointments
made him ever a wet blanket over the kindling
hopes of his friends, bade them wait and see
what the art critics said about the picture,
and whether it was sold or not. Mary was
sure it would be sold, and equally sure that
nobody could find anything but good to say
about it.

Still the private-view days passed, and the
Exhibition opened to the general public;
but Valentine Unwin's picture did not bear
that sweet sign of appreciation expressed by
the green ticket bearing the magic word
Sold. Mary was keenly disappointed in
her own mind; but she bade Valentine not
be impatient,—its lucky day would come. It
seemed long in coming, however; and as
week after week passed by, the young artist,