clean room, papered with green, and covered
with clever sketches and copies. Mary
received them with more ease and comfort
than she would have been able to do some
years before, gave them chairs, and sat down
herself, saying that her brother was only
gone a short distance, and would return in a
few moments.

"And you two live together here; 'tis quite
a little romance of sisterly devotion! " said
Lady Maxwell, regarding poor Mary with a
glance that comprehended and appreciated
all her toilsome days and careful nights. "I
remembered your name directly I heard it;
and I assure you, I was proud to see how
amply Valentine had fulfilled all our
predictions. You said you expected of him no
less than perfection in his art, and he has
attained to it, Sir Everard, has he not?"

"Mr. Unwin is a great artist. I saw that
in his portrait of you before our marriage,"
replied Sir Everard, thus appealed to.

Lady Maxwell laughed.

"Perhaps he might be inclined now to
disown that remarkable work," said she;
"but Aunt Carry prizes it more and more
daily; and if he is famous, she will show it
about as his early phase of genius in art.''

"Was his Sybil painted from one of the
ordinary models? " asked Sir Everard. " It
is a glorious picture!"

Mary's plain face coloured high with delight.
"It is a glorious picture! " she said, with
animation; " but it was not wrought from one
of the models, it was inspired by memory
and fancy."

"It is like my wife—so extraordinarily
like my wife! " replied the baronet. " The
likeness even struck our little girl."

"He was only a boy when he knew me,
and can scarcely have remembered me. It is
a chance resemblance," said Lady MaxwelL

"He must have been a precocious boy,
cousin Rosa," murmured the gentleman who
came with Sir Everard and his wife, in a
fine, insolent way.

Mary disliked his visage. There was an
expression about it of assured power, borne
half-contemptuously, that made the feminine
instinct within her recoil. Lady Maxwell
averted her face. Mary thought there was
an angry sparkle in her eyes as she turned
away.

At this moment Valentine's step was heard
bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time,
and he burst unceremoniously into the room,
little thinking how he was to find it occupied;
for the carriage had been ordered to
go and return, and the ordinary body of
infantry was in possession of the doorstep: all
the more rampant because of their brief
expulsion. He paused amazed, and then,
with a deep flush staining his olive cheek,
stammered out something about the
unexpected honour and pleasure of the visit; so,
incoherent as to give the younger gentleman,
whose name was Mr. Percival Long, a
grotesque idea of the precocious boy who
had idealised his cousin Rosa into the Sybil.

But Valentine was no fool; and the first
shock of astonishment over, he quickly
recovered his equanimity, and conversed fluently
and sensibly with Sir Everard, who was
rather stilted and haughty in manner; that
is to say, he felt that he was talking with a
person inferior to himself by birth, station,
and wealth, and could not help betraying it.
He seemed well-intentioned, kindly, and
honourable; but, at the same time, proud
and reserved, if not cold, in temper. Mr.
Percival Long thought Mary far too plain to
engage his civility, so he only condescended
to whisper to cousin Rosa, and now and then
to drawl a scornful regard about the studio
and its appointments. He afterwards said
that he had no idea where that kind of people
lived meaning the young artists who have
their fame and fortune yet to make.

"Have you tried portrait painting, Mr.
Unwin? " asked Sir Everard. " You would
have a great success in that department of
art. I do not know a modern hand that
pleases me so thoroughly as yours at a female
face—delicate, expressive—"

"And flattering," added Lady Maxwell,
laughing.

"Portrait-painting fellows would never get
on unless they flattered. Nobody would sit to
them," remarked Mr. Percival Long, with his
air of saying something very new and very
wise.

"I shall be very glad to execute an old
commission that you promised me long ago, Sir
Everard," said Valentine, turning from Mr.
Percival Long with a grave self-command
that astonished Mary; " perhaps you
remember what it was?"

"Yes, perfectly; that was what I was
coming to—Lady Maxwell's portrait; not
that you will ever make a more striking or
beautiful picture of her than you have done
accidentally in the Sybil; but I want her
painted in a group with our little May."

Valentine bowed, but did not think it
needful to explain how far the likeness to
Lady Maxwell had been accidental.

"We are going down to the Abbey next
week," Sir Everard added; " and if you will
make your holiday there this summer, you
shall have sittings during your visit. It will
be a change for you from London heat and
noise."

Valentine paid no heed to the patronising
manner of the invitation, but expressed his
willingness to accept it; and, after the
interchange of a few more inquiries and replies,
the Maxwells and Mr. Percival Long went
their way.

"He is a very unassuming young man,"
said Sir Everard, as they drove off; " pleasing,
and of evident genius."

Mr. Percival Long yawned.

"Great bore to live as he does, though,'*
lisped he wearily; " Complete stagnation."