But

man himself was thin, almost spare in figure, and, as far as could be judged from the bending posture of one thinking deeply, appeared to be above the common height. His face was not handsome; but that very want of beauty added to its charm, because the eye, at first dissatisfied, was ever and anon discovering some new expression which gave unexpected delight. One becomes wearied of a handsome face, over which no change flits: it is far better to find out new beauties daily, than gradually to lose sight of those which fascinated at the first look. Quintin Matsys-for it was indeed he of whom we speak-had one perfection so rarely seen, that great index of the mind and disposition-a beautiful mouth and chin. A Greek sculptor would have revelled in its exquisite curves-sharp, decided; the round, but not full lips, set close together, showing great firmness and steadiness of character, mingled with almost womanly sweetAnd when he raised his head, the dark-blue eyes were just the same as in the boy Quintin of old, though now full of grave, almost mournful thought.

ness.

A great change had come over Quintin in five years. He had risen from the blacksmith's low mud-walled cottage to comparative riches. He was now the best iron-worker in Antwerp. He lived in a good house, had workmen under him, and his smooth soft hands showed that he now had no need to handle the hammer. He walked through the streets of Antwerp a prosperous and respected man, though still so young; receiving salutations from the wealthy tradesmen and burghers of the place, and knowing that his present position was the result of his own diligence. But Quintin had had one great sorrow-he had lost his mother.

The unlearned, meek-spirited, but true-hearted Gretchen now slept in the lowly churchyard beside her husband and children. She had died not many months before, having seen and enjoyed her son's prosperity, knowing that it was the work of his own dutiful hands, aided by that blessing of Heaven which ever falls, sooner or later, upon patient industry exercised for a holy purpose. Therefore Quintin felt no violent grief at her peaceful death; but when all was over, and her place was vacant in the house where all needful comforts had surrounded her in her latter years," every hour in the day did Quintin miss his mother.

Often, when in the leisure hours which his raised condition in life afforded him, the young master of the house gazed discontentedly around on his comfortable dwelling, to which something was evidently wanting. He sat down almost cheerlessly to his plentiful meals, at which he felt so lonely. Quintin sighed for his mother, or else for some kind sisterly face to smile opposite to him; and then he thought of Lisa.

Since the hour of their parting he had never seen or heard of his childish friend. Johann Mandyn had never returned from Italy; and in those days, to be in a foreign country was as com

plete a severance as death itself could occasion. Quintin heard no tidings of Lisa; even her existence was unknown to him; and his memory of her had become like an indistinct but pleasant dream. Five years at Quintin's time of life make such changes in the whole character, that we hardly recognise one of the thoughts and feelings of the past as being like those of the present.

He

Quintin had grown up to manhood, with the good qualities which his youth promised ripened into happy maturity, while adversity had taken away many of those feelings from which no one is free. He was now a high-principled, right-feeling young man, guided, but not led away, by the impulses of an affectionate heart. Many of the finer qualities of his soul were as yet undeveloped, though his natural refinement of mind had kept pace with his fortunes. Quintin had not yet felt the influence of love, though, as was natural, several youthful fancies had pleased his imagination for a time; but he always discovered something wanting, and his ideal of perfection was as yet unfulfilled. had, in reality, never felt a stronger love than his devoted attachment to his mother, and his brotherly affection for Lisa, which now existed only in remembrance. Yet the influence of these two had assisted in making Quintin what he was. nothing so salutary to a young man as the unseen but magic power of a good mother or sister. It is a shield and safeguard to him, on his entrance into the world, to look back upon a home where he found, and might still find, a nearer approach to his ideal of goodness than elsewhere. Otherwise he is driven abroad to seek for what he cannot have at home, and his heart often makes its resting-place in some fancied perfection, which soon proves delusive.

There is

Thus Quintin, in all his likings, invariably instituted comparisons with what he remembered of Lisa-what she was, or would be now; and his early association with a character like hers made his heart grow purer and better, and this high standard of excellence prevented his imagination from being led away. Thus was Quintin at the age of twenty.

IX.

A MEETING.

One evening, as Quintin was returning from a chapel in an obscure part of the town, to which he had gone for the performance of his religious duties, an unforeseen adventure occurred. As the small crowd of worshippers passed along, one of them, a female, stumbled and fell. The young girl's foot had slipped from a stone; and there she lay, unable to move, and her old nurse was lamenting over her, and chafing one of the delicate ankles.

"Is she much hurt?" inquired Quintin, bending over the stranger, so as to throw the light of his lantern on her face. It was very beautiful; fair, though colourless, and full of womanly sweetness, like one of Guido's Madonas. We cannot otherwise describe it. The voice which answered, too, was soft and musical, and thrilled in Quintin's heart like a tone heard long ago. "It is nothing, thank you," were the few words she said. The old woman kept exclaiming loudly in a foreign tongue, of which the words, "Lisa-Signora mia Lisa!" struck Quintin's ear.

"Lisa!

Is your name Lisa?" asked Quintin in the same words he had used so long ago.

"Yes, it is Lisa!" answered the wondering girl.

"But are you my Lisa, my Sister Lisa?" cried the young man, forgetting himself in his eagerness.

"I am indeed!" she cried, bending forward and looking fixedly at him; "if you are Quintin—Quintin Matsys.”"

Quintin's first joyful impulse was to press his adopted sister to his breast, as in old times; but he restrained himself, and only took the two hands which were stretched out to him, holding them in his, and kissing them many times.

"You have not quite forgotten, Quintin?"

"Nor you Sister Lisa?" were the first questions that passed between them; and then a strange silence fell upon the two, who, had they thought of such a meeting an hour before, would have fancied their subjects of conversation inexhaustible.

"And your mother, Quintin?" asked Lisa at last.

He did not answer; but the light fell on his sad face, and the girl guessed the truth.

"I had not thought of that," she cried, bursting into tears, and affectionately taking Quintin's hand. Another silence ensued, and then they spoke of changes.

66

Things are strangely altered, when I did not know you, Lisa, as you passed me to-night."

66 Nor I you; but that was no wonder, you are so changed," said the girl, looking at him intently.

66 Were you thinking of the poor blacksmith?" asked the young man, almost mortified.

"No, indeed," cried Lisa, blushing deeply at what she thought had pained him-"no, indeed; I only thought of my brother Quintin."

same?"

"And are you not changed, Lisa? Are you, indeed, the And with a sudden thought he took her left hand: there was no ring there. Quintin felt relieved; but Lisa had not noticed his movement, and answered him frankly and earnestly.

(6 Indeed, Quintin, I am not; I have never forgotten old times; you will always be the same to your sister."

A dearer word than sister just flitted across the young man's thought, but he said nothing. The surprised Italian nurse now drew near, and a few words from Lisa explained the meeting.

The young girl rose to go home to her father's house, which was not far distant; but her steps were feeble, and she was obliged to trust much to Quintin for support. Their young hearts were full of happiness as they walked together through the desolate streets, talking of olden days, of their united childhood, of all that had happened to them since, of her who had been as a mother to both. They spoke of the dead with loving regrets and gentle sadness, which rather spread a holy calm over their present joy than took away from it. And so they went to Lisa's home together, in the sweet reunion of their childish affection; and the quiet stars looked down upon them, as if rejoicing in their happiness.

X.

LOVE AND ITS SHADOWS.

A few weeks passed, during which Quintin and Lisa constantly met. They could not break through old ties—why should they? So they visited together their parents' graves in the old churchyard, and talked over their first meeting; then went to look at the poor cottage, and retrod the path from thence to Lisa's former home, the last walk they had taken together; and then their common faith was a bond of union. In short, love-first, deep and true love-stole into the hearts of Quintin and Lisa before they were aware. It was but the sudden ripening of the strong affection of their youth. They ceased to call one another "brother" and "sister," or, when they did, it was with a shrinking consciousness that these names, dear and tender as they were, were not those that lingered in their hearts, though unacknowledged.

How the discovery was effected each to the other, they probably could hardly tell themselves. Their yet unrevealed love was like a well-tuned harp, of which the lightest breath or touch would awaken its harmonious chords. And that breath, that touch, did come at last, and they were made happy by the sure and certain knowledge of each other's true affection. Lisa's nature was too frank and generous idly to sport with Quintin's love, or to deny her own for one of whom she felt a just pride; and when Quintin Matsys asked if he might one day call her not his sister, but his wife, his own beloved and true-hearted wife, she did not say him nay.

And now the young man had to ask boldly for the hand of his beloved. This required all his courage; for Johann Mandyn was known to be a harsh and irritable man; and even Lisa, who was the sole object which divided his affection with his art, had little influence over him. He was not a man of great genius; his talents were just sufficient to make him perceive this deficiency, and probably his temper was imbittered by this cause. Yet his beautiful and soothing art had a charming influence over his

1

wildest moods; it acted upon him like a spell, and to it he owed all the better and more refined qualities of his nature. He lived within, and for his pictures; everything in the world outside he reckoned as nothing. His greeting of Quintin had been cold, though not unkind; he congratulated him on his changed fortunes in a manner which showed how little he thought about either the young man or his destinies.

Quintin had need of all his love, and all his remembrance of Lisa, to warm his heart when he sat waiting for the painter in his studio. It was a large old-fashioned room, and the light from above gave it a mysterious cast. Opposite to the young man hung a dark-looking painting, from which gleamed out the wild fierce head-it was that of a fallen angel, and the fixed eyes followed him round the room, as he fancied, with a threatening aspect. He closed his eyes, and pictured Lisa's sweet face, but still the dark image pursued him.

At last Mandyn entered the room. He was a little man, with sharp thin features, and bright black eyes gleaming from under bushy eyebrows. He wore a dark velvet cap, which he was accustomed, in the energy of his solitary thoughts, or in earnest conversation, to twist in all directions upon his bald head, giving a wild and sometimes ludicrous air to his countenance.

At his entrance Matsys rose.

The old man came and stood opposite to him, with his hands folded behind his back.

"You are an unusual visitor here," said he. "Have you been admiring my pictures? But I forgot; you do not care about such things."

Quintin muttered some vague compliments. At another time he would better have expressed the warm feelings with which he regarded art, as every higher mind must do; but now he thought only of his errand, and with hesitation explained the reason why he came his hopes, his love, and his worldly prospects.

The old painter listened in silence; but a convulsive twitching of his thin lips showed that he was not insensible to the young man's words.

"Does my daughter love you?" he asked at length in a suppressed tone.

"Yes," said Quintin simply and truthfully.

"She has told you so?" cried the father in a passionate voice; "then she must learn to forget her love, for she shall never become your wife."

Quintin turned pale. "Why not?-have you anything to urge against me? You can lay no crime to my charge. I am honest: I am not poor."

"Do you taunt me with my poverty?" exclaimed the angry painter. "Nevertheless, though I am poor, no daughter of mine shall ever wed a worker in vile metals."

The unfortunate young man compressed his lips together in strong emotion. It was a sore struggle between pride, anger,