, "Thank you kindly, yes, I will!" but although his
judgment told him he was likely to succeed, his finer instincts warned
him that an affirmative would be the sacrifice of her youth, her
illusions, her possible future. Such sacrifice it was far more in
Simon's nature to make than to accept.

"Will she ever know me thoroughly?" he used to think. "Will the time
ever come when I can say to her, 'Nina, I am sure you care for me now,
and therefore I am not afraid to tell you how dearly I loved you all
through'? Such a time would be well worth waiting for, ay, though it
never came for seven years, and seven more to the back of that. Then
I should feel her happiness depended on mine. Now I often think the
prince in the fairy tale will ride past our Putney villa some summer's
day, like Launcelot through the barley sheaves (I'll paint Launcelot
when I've time, with the ripe ears reddened in the sun, and the light
flashing off his harness), ride by and take Nina's heart away with
him, and what will be left for me then? I could bear it! Yes, I could
bear it if I knew she was happy. My darling, my darling! so that you
walk on in joy and triumph, it matters little what becomes of me!"

The sentiment was perhaps overstrained. It is not thus that women are
won. The fruit that drops into people's mouths is usually over-ripe,
and the Sabine maiden would have thought less of her Roman lover,
though doubtless she would have taken the initiative rather than miss
him altogether, had it been necessary to pounce on him in the vineyard
and desire him straightway to carry her home. But the bird of prey
must have its natural victim, and such hearts as our poor generous
painter possessed are destined for the talons and the beak. Ah! those
who value them least win the great prizes in the lottery. Fortune
smiles on the careless player--gold goes to the rich--streams run to
the river, and if you have more mutton than you know what to do with,
be sure that in your folds will be found the poor man's ewe-lamb. Put
a ribbon round her neck, and be kind to her as _he_ was. It is the
least you can do!

"You've taken a deal of pains, Simon," says the sitter, after a long
and well-pleased scrutiny. "Tell me, no flattery now, why should I
be so difficult to paint?" Why, indeed, you saucy innocent coquette!
Perhaps, because, all the while, you are turning the poor artist's
head, and driving pins and needles into his heart.

"I _ought_ to make a good liken