helpless indignation, and Miss Hawkesby looked at her with an expression of haughty defiance; but neither said a word. morning, and her self-reliance was giving way under repeated small trials, not the least of which was the irresistible conviction that old Miss Hawkesby, whom she had thought to manage and patronize, far surpassed her in worldly wisdom. But it is no rare inconsistency of human nature to turn for refuge in an emergency to some unwelcome conviction like this. Poverty of resource has made many a desperate woman resign her pride; and with the hope that Miss Hawkesby might relieve her perplexity, Mrs. Basil uttered her protest, with a latent consciousness that it was, in reality, an ap"Those moss-rose-buds I laid aside here!" peal to Miss Hawkesby's superior tact and said Miss Hawkesby, aggressively. "Just excuse me, ma'am, one minute," said Miss Crane to Mrs. Ruffner; "Sarah never is any good behind the counter.-0 ladies, good-morning!" to Mrs. Basil and Miss Hawkesby, turning a shade more yellow at sight of Mrs. Basil. "If Sarah had but give me a hint it was you, I'd not have kept you waiting; but it's Mrs. Ruffner in the next room, selecting of a belt-buckle, and so very choice she is! What can I do for you, ladies?" 'Sarah, you stupid!" exclaimed Miss Crane, sharply, "did I not show you where I put them in this very drawer?-So sorry, ma'am, that you've been kept waiting. Here they are, ma'am; a dollar and a quarter a spray, and remarkably cheap. For a young lady's evening-dress, I think you said, ma'am? If I might suggest, it would require for the corsage, tunic, sleeves, and coiffure, just four of these elegant sprays, for five dollars-uncommonly reasonable." Miss Crane was in a fever of impatience to return to Mrs. Ruffner. Miss Hawkesby, however, had no mercy upon her. She examined the roses critically, leaf by leaf; she asked for white muslin to display them on; she surveyed them deliberately at arm's length, scrutinized them closely again, and finally turned her back on them, saying, cruelly, to Mrs. Basil: "I think Joanna would prefer those scarlet geraniums at Miss Green's." Now Miss Green was a rival milliner, lately come to Middleborough, and already threatening Lebrun with total eclipse. "Oh dear, ma'am!" cried Miss Crane, eagerly, so far to go in this coming storm. I can show you some fuschias, the perfection of art. Moss-roses is common, I agree-" But Miss Hawkesby was deaf, dumb, and blind. She stalked to Mrs. Basil's carriage, looking as much like a fierce hussar as it was possible for a woman in a lace shawl to look; while Mrs. Basil followed behind, marking every step with her ivory-headed staff. They drove to Miss Green's, where Miss Hawkesby, without leaving the carriage, bought the scarlet geraniums, and then proclaimed herself ready to return to Basil wood. "It is not to be borne!" at last Mrs. Basil exclaimed, when they had proceeded some distance on their way. Was it not intolerable that this wretched gossip about Miss Basil should come to Miss Hawkesby's ears just as the old lady seemed disposed to take an interest in Joanna? This thought kept Mrs. Basil long silent. Then it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps the hints they had just heard might inspire Miss Hawkesby with a laudable desire to rescue her forlorn little grandniece from the influence of a woman wrapped about in mystery. Apart from all anxiety in regard to Arthur, which, indeed, had given place now to a half-hope, half-fear that Anita would be his choice, she did really desire the good of her husband's granddaughter. Perplexed and distressed, she felt an unwonted craving for sympathy and counsel. She had been sorely tried that judgment. "It is not to be borne!" said "I waited for you to speak, madam," said "I allude to this gossip," said Mrs. Basil, whose usual cold composure was rapidly forsaking her. "Could any thing be more mortifying to a woman in my position? Miss Basil's connection with me; and Mrs. Ruffner, the widow of Charles Samuel Ruffner, stooping-" "Why, my good madam," said Miss Hawkesby, “ we must take the world as we find it; and gossip is Mrs. Ruffner's propensity; what else can you expect of her? "I own," said Mrs. Basil, with a sort of peevish triumph that contradicted her words, "I did expect that a decent respect for our cousin, Mrs. Stargold, would have kept her at home in the present alarming condition of Mrs. Stargold's health." Oh, we'll sift this gossip to the bottom," said Miss Hawkesby, with decision. "I believe nothing against Miss Basil until I hear her story; and I know that she has too much good sense to persist in a mystery, in the face of all this talk." "Pamela is very secret," sighed Mrs. Basil. "I've never yet dared to approach her on the subject, much as it has harassed me." "Oh, indeed? But I shall dare," said old Miss Hawkesby. CHAPTER XXVIII. BEYOND HOPE. THE first gusty drops of the impending storm were beginning to fall when the two ladies alighted at Basilwood, bent upon an instant interview with Miss Basil. But only Joanna was at home, watching the clouds with despair in her heart. Anita had not yet returned from the rehearsal, and Miss Basil had gone to the Griswolds with medicines. Mrs. Basil and Miss Hawkesby, therefore, retired, each to her own room, to ponder in private the best method of approaching the reticent Miss Basil on the subject of those mysterious hints they had that morning overheard; and poor little Joanna was again alone, speculating despondingly "Now, I don't believe a word of that," upon the prospect of a disappointment, and said old Miss Hawkesby, quickly. "Beg-wondering uneasily why Anita staid away ging your pardon, madam, Elizabeth Stargold is no more going to die than I am. There is but a year between us, and she has a constitution of iron. I know, for I went to school with her. She's had a shock, and the Ruffners are doing all they can to foster that shock into something serious. She's had a shock, and she's taken it morbidly; but she'll get over it. That doesn't trouble me. I'm much more deeply concerned about this talk in regard to our excellent Miss Basil. It is not altogether new to me; and I'm afraid there is some foundation for all this gossip." "Pamela shall deceive me no longer!" cried Mrs. Basil, shrilly, beginning to lose control of herself as the suspicion dawned upon her that old Miss Hawkesby was about to espouse Pamela's cause. "I have been harassed too much already by hints of this nature. I shall see her when I arrive at home, and DEMAND an explanation!" "I think you are right, madam," said Miss Hawkesby, with judicial calm. "I've no doubt Miss Basil can explain satisfactorily. I came here with a prejudice against that excellent woman. I'm rather apt to take up prejudices, but I can lay them down again, thank Heaven! And Miss Basil has disarmed me completely. I've acquired a great respect for her; and I am much pleased so long. The sight of the scarlet geraniums served but to aggravate her despair, for already the rain was dropping, slowly and fitfully, indeed, but with the unmistakable promise of ultimately "pouring in torrents." Late in the afternoon, Anita returned; very pale and tired she looked, as Joanna saw at once. "O Anita!" she cried, " you have worn yourself out! I thought you were never coming back. Is it going to rain very, very hard?" "My poor little Joanna," said Anita, taking her sister's face between her hands, "would it be so great a disappointment to miss this tiresome charade-party?" "It is tiresome to you, Anita, because you have worked so over it. How hot your hands are! Lie down and rest, or you will not be able to go. And I have scarlet geraniums, Anita; isn't Aunt Hawkesby kind to me?" And Joanna held up the box containing the flowers, for Anita's inspection. Anita looked at them, smiling absently; then, turning away abruptly, she began to move restlessly about the room. "Are you displeased, Anita ? Is any thing the matter? Has any one vexed you?" asked Joanna, anxiously. "I'm rehearsing my part, child," said Anita, with a mock-tragedy air. "But you will be worn out; you never will be able to go, if you do not rest? And I can't go without you," said Joanna, pleadingly. "I am very sorry for you, Joanna," said Anita, gently, "but the charades cannot take place to-night. You see there is going to be a storm. Never mind, Joanna, you shall have plenty of opportunities in the future." "I knew it would be so," said Joanna, resignedly, after a short silence of blank disappointment. "And my dress was so pretty, and the scarlet geraniums and all, and you would have made me look so nice." Anita turned her face away. "But, never mind," continued Joanna, cheerfully; "you will yet dress me up in my pretty dress-will you not, Anita ?" But, to her consternation, her sister answered by a sob. "O Anita! what has happened, what is going to happen?" cried Joanna, in terror, running up to her. "Child," said Anita, falteringly, "if I were to go away and never see you more"You must not go, you shall not go!" cried Joanna, clinging to her sister in terror. "Anita! Anita! what are you going to do? Is it Mr. Redmond? I will tell Pamela-I will tell my aunt!" "No, Joanna; for you will not betray me," said Anita, quietly. "It is easy enough to go to Aunt Hawkesby's room and tell her that I am going away forever this night. She will tie her head up in her silk handkerchief and upbraid me, but she can't prevent my going; and, when I am gone, you will win great favor in her sight by having betrayed the unworthy trust of your undutiful sister; but, whether you betray me, or whether you do not betray me, you will see me no more after this night, my little sister. Our aunt, Miss Hawkesby, will immediately exact a promise of you, and duty, honor, gratitude, all will bind you to keep it religiously-never, never to see me again." Poor Joanna, trembling violently, and with tears streaming down her face, threw herself on her knees at her sister's feet. "I cannot betray you! No, no! No matter what it might cost me, I cannot betray you. But I can plead with you. Anita, I would risk my life for you! I would give my life for you! Mr. Redmond is wrong—" "Hush, Joanna; he loves me," said Anita, in a low voice. "He cannot love you as I love you!" cried Joanna, passionately. "You know nothing about it, child," said Anita; but she smiled. "I know my own heart," cried Joanna, "and I would give my life for you, Anita. Don't go away this night. Aunt Hawkesby, she is old-she has had you from a little child, Anita-I couldn't leave Pamela this way. And we have just found each other; must we lose each other so soon-so soon? Anita, be pitiful; there are but us two." "It is too late, Joanna, it is too late," said Anita, turning her face away. now. Write, and I will carry the note." Joanna had risen. "Write, write, Anita, and you will never be sorry for it. It is best to do right." "My dear, good Joanna," said Anita, slowly, "give me the paper; I will write. I said I would never sacrifice myself for youdid I not? Yet see what I am doing! Well may Basil Redmond say that you are his rival." "You are doing right," said Joanna, "and all will be well. You shall be happy, too, Anita; Aunt Hawkesby has a heart, and I will prove it to you." "But it rains," said Anita, anxiously, seeing that Joanna began to array herself in water-proof and over-shoes. "Why not send old Thurston?" "No, no; I myself will take it; did I not say that I would risk my life for you? Old Thurston would sell his soul for gold, but he couldn't be hired to risk his 'jints' in this weather." "But it is over the bridge and into the town that you must go," said Anita, “to Aurelia Caruthers. She will be the surest to see him-she was to have come over with him." "Very well, I can take it," said Joanna, eagerly, as she pinned the note inside the pocket of her water-proof. If only she could get away safely with it! Pamela had laid an injunction upon her not to go out-but that was in consideration of the charadeparty-and, while so much was at stake, a trifling disobedience could not matter. "Now, Anita, won't you lie down and go to sleep? I will not be gone very long." So Anita promised, and Joanna set forth upon her errand. It was not raining very hard when she left Basilwood, but by the time she had arrived at the bridge the storm had burst in all its fury. The narrow river, subject to sudden and violent freshets, was seething and whirling madly in its course; but Joanna did not dream of danger, though the bridge rocked with every blast; her only anxiety was to perform her errand. The bridge being covered, she did not feel the full severity of the storm while under its shelter, where all was dark, save when a flash of lightning illumined the obscurity. About midway she ran against two persons, a man and a woman, crossing in the opposite direction. They, like herself, were enveloped in water-proof, and evidently in as great haste as she. The collision caused an appreciable delay of an instant, and in that instant a fearful creaking and swaying of the timbers warned the three to hasten for their lives. The man, seizing his companion by the arm, shouted the single word "Run!" And Joanna obeyed, as though upheld by superhuman strength, half giddy with the peril of the situation, and almost overpow ered by the tremendous rush of recollections that crowded to her mind. She gave herself up for lost, and strove to frame a prayer. But Heaven willed it otherwise, and Joanna's feet touched the land in safety. Then, with a thankful heart, she looked back, and saw, on the opposite bank, the man and the woman whom she had met in crossing standing safe. She knew not who they were, but a common peril had made them seem inexpressibly near to her; and they, probably, had the same feeling toward her, for the man was waving his hat to her. And the crazy old bridge still kept its place! Doubtless it would stand forever, Joanna thought; and in a little while she would have seen Miss Caruthers, delivered her note, and be on her way back again to Anita; and so, hastening on, she presently arrived at her destination. The house in which Mrs. Paul Caruthers then lived was built in the early days of Middleborough. Everybody knows the di minutive, two-story frame building, standing on a corner fronting the west; its walls are a dingy white, its Venetian blinds a dingy green. Two uncommonly tall crape-myrtles guard the gate, like a pair of plumed grena diers; two huge Cape jasmine-bushes, the rotund growth of many years, obscure the narrow windows on either side of the contracted porch, to which a bricked walk leads the way. A brown and yellow door, blistered by the sunsets of many a summer, invites you, by a deeply-indented brass knocker, to make your coming known. Joanna's impatient summons was answered by Mrs. Paul Caruthers in person. "Why, bless me!" cried the old lady, staring, "I surely thought it was the doctor. I've been threatened again with that vertigo, and I sent for Dr. Garnet, above three hours ago. I surely thought, when you knocked, that it was he. Well, come in, child; I know you, but I can't recall your name." Joanna, in high excitement with her walk, her temporary fright, and her eagerness to perform her errand and return, shouted her name in the old lady's ear. "There!" cried Mrs. Caruthers, crossly, and recoiling a step. "I'm not so deaf as all that. Come in. What on earth brought you out in this storm? I'll engage Miss Ba sil doesn't know it." Joanna, ignoring this last remark, endeavored to make Mrs. Caruthers understand that she wished to see Miss Aurelia. "You must take off this cloak," said the old lady, for answer; "I can't have it dripping on my carpet, you see." Joanna, in a fever of impatience, slipped off her cloak, repeating her demand to see Miss Aurelia. "Sit down," said Mrs. Paul Caruthers, pushing her into the little parlor, and then into a little chair. "What on earth do you want with Aurelia?" "I've a message for her!" shouted Jo ! anna. "And I'm in haste!" "Bless me! I'm not so very deaf, surely. I wonder you do not remember," said the old lady, with indignant reproach. "A note or a message from Miss Anita, I suppose?" "Oh, please, can I see her?" entreated Joanna. "What? See Aurelia? Why, didn't I tell you that she is gone? She went half an hour ago, across the bridge to Upper Middleborough. I shouldn't wonder if you met her. She was with Mr. Redmond.” Joanna started up with a cry of dismay. Surely, she had met them on the bridge; why had she not thought of it? If she could only get back to Anita in time! "You are not going back to-night, surely?" said Mrs. Caruthers. "Oh, I must! I must!" she cried, rushing out into the little entry, where, to her inexpressible indignation, Dr. Garnet caught her in his arms, just as he was coming in. "Hey-dey!" he cried, in his bluff way. "How the mischief did you get here? By boat?" "You know very well that I did not come that way," said matter-of-fact Miss Joanna, indignantly. "Let me go! I am going home. I tell you there is not a moment to lose." "Home to Basilwood?" said Dr. Garnet, loudly, and little knowing the misery he was about to inflict. "Why, you can't get there. The bridge is gone; utterly and irremediably gone; I saw it with my own eyes." Joanna stared at him wildly, and then, realizing that she was cut off from home, staggered back against the wall, white as a sheet. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Dr. Garnet. "You are not going to faint? Why, there was nobody hurt, you sensitive-plant! See what it is, now, to be a woman, and have nerves." "I'm not a woman, and I've got no nerves!" cried Joanna, with rampant antagonism. "But I'm a miserable, unfortunate girl!-0 Pamela ! Pamela! why did I disobey you? Had I staid at home, as you bade me, all might yet be well.-It will break my heart, Anita!" "I can't make out one word she says!" cried old Mrs. Paul Caruthers, indignantly. "What is it all about?" "Poor thing! I'm afraid she's very young," said old Mrs. Paul Caruthers, shak- AN ARTIST'S ADVENTURE. "Valerian!" crid Joanna, with an hysterical laugh. "Valerian! All the old women in the world believe in valerian. Will it take me back to Basilwood?" Mercy upon us!" cried Mrs. Caruthers, lifting a pair of trembling hands; "the girl's | intellects are scattering, surely. And it is enough to unsettle one, I say. Middleborough bridge is gone? Well, I wonder! It has stood for twenty years or more. I always said it would last my time, and I suppose I shall go next." "Not a bit of it, madam!" said Dr. Garnet, with loud assurance. "We'll build up the bridge, and you too." "And get me back to Basilwood this night?" cried Joanna, eagerly, encouraged by his confident tone. "Excuse me there, if you please," said Dr. Garnet. "I don't undertake to perform impossibilities; and you can't get back.” "Not by boat?" "Certainly not." "Am I to stay here forever?" cried she then, with shrill emphasis, and wringing her hands. "The Lord forbid!" said old Mrs. Caruthers, devoutly. you "Now see here," said Dr. Garnet, " just make yourself easy. You are safe here, and all in good time you'll get back to Basilwood." "All in good time! Oh, you know nothing about it!" cried Joanna, with a passionate burst of tears. "I shall never see my sister again." "I think you would better look at her tongue, doctor-and feel her pulse," said Mrs. Caruthers. "I'm not so sure but that a good dose of valerian-this breaking down of Middleborough bridge is a terrible shock -the instability of mundane affairs, to be sure!" "My head does ache," said poor Joanna, helplessly, to the doctor. “Am I going to be ill? Pamela said so this morning." "Ill? Not a bit of it!" said the doctor, encouragingly. "Only a little nervous excitement. I'll give you a dose of chloral; that will quiet you. Then do you lie down and take it easy not my physic, but this "I'm blessed if I know," said the doctor, mouse-trap business, ha! ha! We'll get you helplessly. back to Basilwood all in good time-all in good time." "It is too late," sighed Joanna, as she swallowed the doctor's dose. "When I get back to Basilwood all will be over.-0 Anita! Anita! Anita! Every thing will be changed." "You may lie down in here," said Mrs. Caruthers, opening a door into the adjoining room, with an air of heaping coals of fire upon her enemy's head. "It is Aurelia's own room, and not a bad place to be caught in, I'm sure," she added, with resentful reference to Joanna's unfortunate speech about the mouse-trap, which the old lady misunderstood. Ever afterward she asserted that Joauna had spoken it in contempt of the dingy little house. THERE HERE are in Europe, in all the most charming spots, such as the neighborhood of Baden-Baden, on the Lake of Como, near Florence, and in Rome, certain unoccupied houses, belonging generally to royalty, or to the uureigning scions of royal families. These houses, fitted up with works of art, beautifully furnished, and with an equipage of servants, stand always ready for their host and hostess, and are in their absence freely shown to guests, who pay a trifling gratuity to the steward for the privilege. Such a house, rich in Canova's masterpieces, stands, always empty, always open, on the Lake of Como. It is the Villa Carlotta, known to all travelers. Not so well known, and on a different part of the lake, stands another villa, which we will call Villa Lucca. I had gone there to see a disputed Correggio of which I had heard at Parma. I found the house the perfection of solitude, luxury, refinement, and beauty, and full of statues, pictures, storied tapestry, goblets of Benvenuto, old china, and bric-a-brac enough to break the heart of a collector. It was full of every thing but human beings, and ready for them; a young husband could have brought the most exigeant bride there any moment, and a banquet would have risen from the ground for them. Several servants in livery, with nothing to do, stood around or moved away with the rapidity and silence of lizards. I thought of calling it the "Palace of the Sleeping Beauty,” in my note-book, but on writing that down it looked as if the thing had been said before, and I rubbed it out as unworthy. The grounds, reaching to the lake, were enchanting, filled with every fragrant flower, every resplendent, blossoming tree; long "pleached alleys" like that down which "Beatrice, like a lapwing, ran," offered their shade and beauty to my already intoxicated senses. Some person of the most refined, subtilely refined, taste had planned this paradise, had built and finished it. "A poet on a throne had realized his dreams," as Disraeli beautifully said of Louis of Bavaria. What a pity that he was so unworthy the saying! Then what blight had come across it, what ennui, what disappointment, had driv. en the owner away? It seemed to me to be the only privilege I would ask of Fate, to be allowed to stay there, to live always with such a surrounding; to look on that lake by morning light, by starlight, and by moonlight; to breathe even the air loaded with the sweet scent of the Olia fragrans, most delicate of perfumes. I had permission from a great personage connected with the owner of the villa to copy the Correggio, and the old steward told me that there were certain apartments in a pavilion in the gardens which he had the right to let. I could take them for a month. The princess who owned the villa had not been near it for several years; he did not know if she would ever come again, but his orders were imperative-he was to keep the house always ready for her. So I took up my comfortable quarters in the pavilion, and began my copy of the Correggio. The room in which it hung looked out on a secluded part of the garden, far away from the noble front entrance, The people who came to see the villa often passed through the grand state apartments, nor noticed the modest wing where I was at work. This pleased me; it helped the illusion which I was carefully creating in my own mind that I owned the villa and should continue to work and live there, forgotten by the world, unintruded upon by the real owners, perhaps for the whole summer. This charm was rudely broken in upon by a most silvery voice, one morning-a woman's voice. I heard her parleying with the old steward. "I want to see the Correggio! My friend the princess says I am to see the Correggio!" said the voice. "Yes, excellenza," said the old Italian, "but there is a young man painting in that room. Let me ask him to retire first, and then your ladyship shall enter." I was about to jump out of the window, when I heard the voice again. "No! I want to see the artist. I have a letter from the princess in my hand. Go in and give this card to him, his name is-his name is Thornton," said the voice, hesitat ingly. "Yes," said a masculine voice responding, which I had not heard before, a voice scarcely less sweet than that of the woman. I recognized English voices, English accent, English speech, and the old steward put into my hands the cards of LADY DIANA ESTCOURT. MR. ALFRED COURTNAY. I was somewhat embarrassed by this unexpected attention from such a lofty-sounding lady, but I had little time to think of myself before Lady Diana, evidently a person not apt to be refused, had followed her card. A tall, superb figure in a white dress, and wearing a sort of Rubens hat with a long feather, swept into the room. I had only time to observe that I stood before a beauty, an English beauty, a young and fresh woman, not more than twenty years of age-perhaps not so old-and that with her was a tall, dark young man in the irreproachable morning toilet of a London man, when she addressed me with a sweet English accent: Excuse me, Mr. Thornton," she said, "for intruding on your working-hours, but I have a pocket full of letters to you. In the first place, here is one from Holman Hunt, another from Ruskin, another from Millais. They all tell me you have the secrets of the water-color brush, and that you will perhaps give me a few lessons. Then here is one from your uncle, the ex-minister to London, one of my intimate friends, I assure you. Then here is another to you from your unknown hostess, the princess, who gives me leave to take up my residence here, and to paint as many views of the lake as I please. Now let me introduce my friend Mr. Alfred Courtnay, who will in his turn introduce me, and assure you that I am Diana Est court, a woman of many caprices, and not apt to be foiled in any thing she undertakes." I felt as a sort of male Danaë may have felt when Jupiter descended in an unexpected shower of gold. I had lived many years in London; I knew all these people; I had an uncle who was an ex-minister; I had influence enough, here and there, to reach my princess, and obtain permission to copy her Correggio; but I was withal a very modest personage, nor had I catalogued my own greatness or merits quite so rapidly as had Lady Diana Estcourt. Therefore I was considerably abashed; I was a modern Endymion in a painter's jacket, and a wondrously beautiful and unexpected Diana had descended from her radiant sphere to overwhelm me with her light. I dare say I was very awkward and very much embarrassed, but I knew enough to say yes, and to express my willingness to place my poor talents at the disposition of Lady Diana. She told me that she was staying with her mother at Caddennabia, and should, the next day, be glad to come and begin the water-color lessons. In fact, so chatty, agreeable, even confidential, became Lady Diana Estcourt, that I felt on good terms at once, and accompanied her and Mr. Courtnay to the shore of the lake, where she and he seated themselves in a little row-boat, where, with one oarsman between them, they, themselves each taking an oar, were soon receding from my view toward Caddennabia. I noticed that Lady Diana pulled a very good oar. She was a "muscular Christian," I was destined to find out-of a fine, healthy, powerful organization. There were good muscles in those well-shaped arms and hands; there was health and vigor behind that delicate beauty. I have often noticed that very handsome people are apt to be healthy. I suppose they are as well made within as without. When I came back to my Correggio it struck me that his Madonna was not so fair as I had thought her, nor his flesh- tints so irreproachable. The beauty of Lady Diana was unbecoming to even Correggio, the sweetest and most perfect of the painters of women and children. Lady Estcourt, her daughter, and a troop of maids and serving-men, came down by the steamer next morning, and took up their residence in one of the handsomest suites of the unoccupied villa. They did not pay me a visit that day, being busy, I suppose, in arranging themselves; but Mr. Alfred Courtnay pulled himself over in his little boat, and kindly came in to see me. He, too, was singularly handsome. I felt as if I were to be swamped with beauty. He was an English-looking man with an Italian complexion, pale, dark, clear, and with a pair of black eyes which fascinated and held the person into whose face he was looking with a sort of magnetic power. done. She happened to see a water-color of yours in London which pleased her very much, and she determined to find you out. She knows everybody-artists, actors, authors, wits, celebrities of all kinds, as well as the whole world of society. Never was such a woman as she is for leading four or five lives, full of talent, full of impulse, and, fortunately, also full of good sense, although she sometimes gets herself laughed at. Well, in her inquiries about you, she, knowing that you were an American, naturally went to Mr. M-, your uncle, the ex-minister, and was very much relieved to find that you were his nephew, and, better than all, that you were in Italy, where she was coming. Water-color painting happens to be (excuse me if I speak irreverently) her passion at present, and she will follow that until she gets another fancy. My aunt, Lady Estcourt (for I happen to be a sort of distant cousin), is the slave of her daughter and of her own ill-health, and if you run round with a shawl, and tell her she is in a draught, Lady Estcourt will take you into high favor. The princess, your noble hostess, we met at Milan. She is a friend of Lady Diana, and it was by the merest aceident that in their chat it came out that Mr. Frank Thornton, whom we had been looking for at Parma, was here, at her own Villa Lucca, copying the Correggio." "I am very happy," I replied, "and very much flattered, Mr. Courtnay, to have be come of so much importance all at once; it never happened to me before, I assure you. Now, will you add to your kindness, and tell me about the princess?-for, although my uncle got me a letter to her, and permission was graciously granted me to come here, I never have seen her." I was looking straight into Mr. Courtnay's black eyes as I spoke peculiar eyes, in which every emotion seemed to show itself; shifting shadows came and went as he talked, even with me, who looked at him only with an artist's curiosity. As I spoke of the princess, his eyes filled with a great light; they seemed to become larger and more beautiful-they were positively dazzling. he. "You have not seen the princess ? ” said "The most beautiful woman in Eu rope!" Jupiter Ammon! more beauty. Why, this is getting monstrous! I hope I shall not see her," said I. Lady Diana is quite as much as a poor fellow can stand for one summer." "Yes," said Courtnay, the light shifting again in his eyes, and a sort of cloud coming over their brilliancy-"yes, Lady Di is certainly very handsome.-You know the story of the princess? She married, very young, the brother of the now reigning king, and had a son. Her husband died very soon after her marriage. She has remained a widow. This boy of hers may become of great importance from his nearness to the reigning family, and her royal brother-in-law holds a pretty powerful hand over her. Still she continues to enjoy some liberty, and is happier everywhere than here, where I suspect she passed some very unhappy years." "I have come, Mr. Thornton," said he, with that voice which I had noticed before as singularly musical-"I have come at Lady Diana's request to explain her rather sudden descent upon you yesterday. She is, as you know, the daughter of an earl, and left by | his death, with her widowed mother and a very large fortune, entirely free to do as she pleases-in fact, that is what she has alwayslessly. "How old is her son?" said I, care "Oh, about six years, I suppose. Old enough to ride a pony, run risks of being drowned, and giving all his suite continued uneasiness, including his mother, who adores him, the cub!" I thought Mr. Courtnay's voice was a trifle less musical as he described the future princeling, the young gentleman whose fortunes might become kingly, but who was now a cub! But he took on again his fascinating manner, and talked of the Correggio. Then he left me, and I fell dreaming of the princess. I pictured to myself the royal lady who had lived in this beautiful villa, and who had been unhappy. "The mother of a son, six years old, she probably looks," thought I, "like Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a black-velvet dress and a white coif on her head, as do royal widows. She is pale, sad, noble-looking-the 'most beautiful woman in Europe!"" Ah, Mr. Courtnay is mistaken. He has forgotten that Lady Diana Estcourt is in Europe! The next day Lady Diana came in to take her painting-lesson, with a maid bearing water-color boxes, and her beautiful person shrowded in a brown-linen guard, such as I have noticed English ladies are fond of donning when they work away at their paints. Her mother followed her, a stout, elderly, aquiline-featured person, smothered in shawls. I was duly presented, and, remembering Courtnay's hint, warned her of the draught, and received a gracious smile. Lady Diana showed me her sketches, and went to work. She had got rather beyond the alpha of water-color, but she was still farther from the omega. I should be able, I found, to teach her a great deal. She was painting away with conscientiousness and fervor, when Mr. Courtnay was announced. She began talking to him with vivacity, but I noticed that the strong white hand which had been dabbing away so firmly at the "Lake of Como" began to tremble, and that the little ear nearest me became very pink indeed. So that was Lady Diana's secret, was it? Well, it was certainly none of my business. Courtnay, after a courteous salutation to me and a "Good-morning, aunt," seated himself by the young lady. "Why, Di, you have improved already," said he. "What a good teacher Mr. Thornton must be! But the Lake of Como is getting jealous. I think you have painted it long enough. Won't you come out and take a row with old Giuseppe and me?" Lady Diana had just got to that part of her picture which needed that she should do still a little more before she left it. She asked Courtnay to wait a half-hour for her, when she would go. marriage-who knows? And I gave a new dash to the eyelids of my beautiful Madonna, after Coreggio-yes, a long way "after." Lady Estcourt had been asleep, I think, in the sheltered alcove where I had placed her. Lady Diana and Courtnay had gone, and the maid was picking up the brushes when she awoke or came-to, and began talking to me. A high-bred English lady knows how to be agreeable, even if she is profoundly selfish and afraid of draughts, and Lady Estcourt condescended to be agreeable for five minutes. She talked of my work and of her daughter; asked what I thought of her talents, and if she was achieving much in water-color; and then volunteered the interesting information that she would probably not care for it long, as there was every probability of her marrying her cousin, Alfred Courtnay, who was devoted to her; "and then, you know, Mr. Thornton," said Lady Estcourt, with a rather crippled effort at playfulness—" then ladies lose their interest in the accomplishments." "Yes, they do," thought I, as the days went on, and I watched my beautiful pupil and her agitation when Courtnay entered the room, or saw them as they walked through the flowering, shaded alleys in that deep converse which lovers love. Lady Diana was tall-almost as tall as Courtnay—and had the chestnut hair, blue eyes, and dazzling complexion, of her race. As she walked with Courtnay she had one beautiful trick, which I always admired, of holding his arm and turning to look at him with her head thrown back like a deer. Her heavy, glorious hair had given her a certain carriage of the head which was very noble. Its weight absolutely pulled the head back. As she walked away from me one day leaning on his arm I noticed this attitude especially. It seemed to me that she was adoring Courtnay far more than he did her. There began to be lover-like intimacies between them. I saw them sitting sometimes under the rose-trellis, her white hand on his shoulder; and more than once I approached them with considerable preparatory noise, lest I should surprise an even more affectionate grouping, perhaps interrupting or ruining a kiss. The lessons went on unremittingly, and one day, when Courtnay had left us for a journey to Milan, I ventured to speak of his extraordinary beauty, and to show her a sketch I had made of him from memory. Lady Diana was highly delighted, and proposed that we should both ask him to sit, and that she should sketch him in watercolor while I attempted him, in a sort of Titianesque dress, in oils. Courtnay was very good-natured under this joint infliction, and posed for us most patiently. He was indeed a subject wholly worthy of our work, and, in his Italian dress, a perfect representation of a Venetian noble. I have never seen a more superb masculine beauty. He acceded rather ungraciously, I thought, and the shadows in his curious eyes grew gloomy. He looked at me once or twice. Could he possibly pay me the compliment of being jealous? I had been lifted up into such unexpected notice in two days that I To see the woman who loved him so tendid not know what might happen. Perhaps derly, and with a sort of attempted concealthe widowed princess might take a fancy to ment of her passion-to see her gracious, nome, and lift me to the height of a morganatie | ble, and most aristocratic head thrown back as she looked at him with an artist's comprehension and a woman's adoration, was the most worthy picture I have ever seen. I sat up nights to paint her from memory, and I have the sketch by me still. We made two pictures of the same man totally unlike each other. Mine was the best picture and the most like him, I still think; but, do what I would, it would look like Cæsar Borgia, I got in Courtnay's eyes, but they had a baleful lustre. "You have made me a very handsome fellow, with a very cunning, bad look," said he, as he regarded my work. Lady Diana had given him the expression of an angel. Those black eyes swam in a sort of liquid beatitude. I could not say that it was not like him. I had once seen that look in his eyes, but it was when he spoke of the princess. "You have made me look as I shall look in heaven, Diana," said he, and for a moment he deserved the compliment, for he bent his magnificent eyes upon her with that expression which I have never caught in another face, and smiled a lover's smile. I had grown to admire Lady Diana more and more. She had a very honorable, ingenuous, courageous nature, full of impulse, but of impulse under the control of the purest principle. Our enforced intimacy, as pupil and teacher, took us on many expeditions up and down the beautiful lake which Claude Melnotte has described to so many audiences, who always listen, I notice, to the allusion to" alabaster lamps " with bated breath. The only "alabaster lamps" we had at the villa were the moon, and stars, and Courtnay's magnetic eyes. For a month I saw Lady Diana several hours of every day. We talked perpetually; it was impossible not to know her well, and not to revere that clear and elevated intelligence. The fact that she was desperately in love with another man had perhaps its advantages-I could study her from a more unselfish stand-point. I could not make out Courtnay; he was a mystery, as changeful as his eyes. I could not say that he was not all that was gentlemanlike, lover-like, admirably polite, agreeable, with a thousand attractive qualities; but in my heart of hearts I distrusted him. I knew that he did not love Lady Diana as she loved him. It occurred one day to me, as we sat and painted together, to ask Lady Diana about the unknown princess whose silent and unobtrusive hospitality sheltered us both. I told her of my imagination of her a rather dignified copy of Mary Queen of Scots, a suggestion of Lady Macbeth, something rather dark and terrible. Mystery is a great painter, I have observed-one of the oldest of the old masters. She laughed her pretty, hearty, sweet, musical laugh. Dear Lady Di! in those days she had that laugh; in the enormously long inventory of her charms that must not be forgotten. She could laugh well-not too loud, not too heartily. Terpsichore herself could have envied Lady Diana her sweet, silvery laugh. "Hear, Alfred-hear Mr. Thornton's description of the princess," said she. |