face; for thee-yes, thee-he must have read it! He did not offer me money but handed me this card, and with it these words' If you should ever want a friend, call on me; though poor myself, I still have the means of occasionally assisting a fellow-creature.' There was a melancholy sound in his voice which touched my heart; I again looked at him, and would have invited him to our house, but I thought of thee, and he so handsome and accomplished, and I still thought of thee, my child; for such men, however polite, are those a father should most shun. So we parted."

CHAPTER VI.

THE ARTIST AND HIS VISITER.

With the morning came the writ of execution against the furniture of the old man. As the eye of the officer rested upon the scene of poverty, he could not refrain from the expression of his sentiments in relation to the conduct of the landlord.

"That, sir," exclaimed the rich, proud man, "is my business! yours to act in your official capacity without comment. Old man, can you pay my rent?"

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No, sir, I cannot; look at that weeping girl, can you have the heart to turn us out of doors, to wander, as beggars, through the streets?"

"That is your business."

"Dear father, do not talk to him; his heart is of stone, and words fall upon it as does the snow upon an icicle, cold and chilly!"

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Very poetical, girl; but in poetry nothing jingles so well as money."

"Heartless villain! address not my child; look at her with but a sneer, and, old as I am, I will chastise you on the spot. Sir," addressing the officer, "will you give me one half hour's respite; in that time I think I can raise the money."

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Certainly, sir; I will stay the execution of the writ for one hour."

"Thanks-thanks!" So saying, the old man started forth, to obtain, if possible, the sum necessary to save his little furniture.

The Artist was alone in his studio; the picture of her he loved stood before him, looking down upon his labor with a smile of approbation. It had now become a part and portion of his existence. He would not have lived alone and isolated as he did without it for worlds! It was the object of his adoration-his hope on earth. And who would live without hope? If he was in doubt in regard to an undertaking, one look at the portrait would decide him; for fancy would shadow the soft and beautiful expression of the countenance with a frown whenever his dream of ambition had a tendency to lead him beyond his means, and were calculated to disturb the quiet and peace of his own little studio. That portrait was his Mentor. It was while indulging in one of those pleasing reveries, wandering again in imagination o'er the past, that a footstep on the stairs disturbed him. It came nearer and nearer; it stopped-then came a knock; to his reply of walk in, there appeared a man of about sixty years of age-his garments threadbare but decent; the close observer would have noted the thousand little ways art had adopted to keep his habiliments in something of a genteel, if not respectable appearance. Poverty, however, stood con

fessed. The Artist arose upon the entrance of his visiter, in whom he recognized the street acquaintance of the evening previous, and, having handed him a chair, hoped that the fright he had received was not accompanied with any serious consequences.

"No, sir; thanks to your presence of mind, I escaped even the knowledge of my danger; but I have called upon you, sir, somewhat earlier than I expected: misery knows no time nor place."

"Speak, sir; you have my promise, and the word of Henry Seymour has never yet been broken."

"You should at least know something of one you are about to befriend. You see a man, sir, on whom fortune once lavished her choicest gifts; one who, though not regardless of the duty of a father, forgot, in a moment of wild speculation, every obligation that should have taught him better; from that splendid dream of riches he awoke to grasp, instead of wealth, iron poverty; and now, sir-yes! -the once rich merchant, with funds and means at command, asks from a stranger the loan of fifteen dollars to keep his little furniture from the grasp of an avaricious landlord.”

"No more, sir; no more; I read your history last night; here are twenty dollars-return to your home, and may fortune be more propitious to you."

"Thanks! young man, thanks! May Heaven-ha! what is that? Whose likeness is that-speak?"

"Which one?"

"That-that!" pointing to the portrait to which we have so frequently alluded.

The Artist, with his eyes riveted upon the old man, calmly exclaimed, “I know not!"

"But how-where did you get it? Ah! I begin to see

the vile cloak of your charity. Yes! all men are alike— base and selfish! There, sir, take your money; you know me; you would buy the father to ruin the child !"

"Child!-old man, drive me not mad-your child? Father of Heaven, do I hear aright? Does that picture resemble your daughter!"

"The very counterpart ?"

"And she-she lives?"

"Young man, farewell!-you cannot deceive me."

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'Stay! you shall not-nay, you must not leave me! I am not the wretch your imagination has made me ! Listen -life itself rests upon this moment! Some six years ago, near Fairmount, I was the humble instrument of rescuing a young girl and her father from banditti—”

"Ah! were you that brave youth?-then I have not dreamt it!"

"Dreamt what? All to me since that hour has been a fearful dream. Old man, that bright face, since that fearful moment, has been to me my life-my soul! I have worshipped her image in the pale moonlight, on the hills, beneath which I saved her!-Do not mock me, old man! Do not darken the ray of light which now beams upon this lacerated heart! Speak-does that resemble your child?" "It is my child! I am the man you saved from robbers, and my daughter lives."

“And-answer me❞—and the youth tottered to a chair-"not married?"

"No, thank Heaven! for now I can make her happy; young man, she loves you!"

"Loves me-whom she saw but once?"

"But once; and, like you, she has lived on the remembrance of that hour."

"Then am I loved as man was never loved!"

A few weeks after the events above described, Henry Seymour and his beloved sat side by side each other, and in that sweet converse, when souls hold communion, did they talk of the past. It was a pleasing retrospection, for the pages of love's book were opened one by one, as they talked on, and then indeed were they happy. It was a moment of rapture to the Artist; the poet or the painter's art could not picture it. The cheerful smile of the old man, as he gazed upon them, was that of joy; and it fell upon their union of hearts, as a blessing on that season of their pure and undying love.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DEATH-BED.-REPENTANCE.*

We now conduct our readers to an old-fashioned house, built after the English style, with its high ceilings and dark wood cornices, with faded drapery hanging loosely from its lofty windows. In a room of this dwelling, on a costly bed, lay a dying man. His pale, sunken cheek, and wandering eye, told the gazer that but a few short moments yet remained of his wretched existence.

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Richard," he muttered, "where have you been for the last twenty-four hours? Am I to die alone? Richard, did that letter go safe?"

"Yes sir, it did."

"Then why don't he come? Well, well, I turned him out of my house, the home of his childhood, a spot most dear, as it ever should be, to youth! I turned him away from all the associations of his boyhood! I-I-yes! I

*See Leaf Thirty-First.