eman; but he lingered no
more through the long sunny morning by her side. He gave up all
attempts to educate her. He ceased to tease her about books; he never
offered to read to her; and pretty, simple Dora, taught by the keen
instinct of love, noted it all.

Ronald saw some little change in her. The dimples and smiles had
almost vanished from her face. He seldom heard the laugh that had once
been so sweet to him. There was retiring grace in her manner that
suited her well. He thought she was catching the "tone of good
society," and liked the change.

Some natures become ennobled under the pressure of adversity; but
limited means and petty money cares had no good effect upon Ronald
Earle. He fretted under them. He could do nothing as other people
did. He could not purchase a magnificent bouquet for the countess; his
means would not permit it. He could not afford a horse such as all his
gentlemen friends rode. Adversity developed no good qualities in him;
the discipline was harder and sterner still that made of him a true man
at last.

Ronald went on with his painting fitfully, sometimes producing a good
picture, but often failing.

The greatest patron of the fine arts in Florence was the Prince di
Borgezi. His magnificent palace was like one picture gallery. He saw
some sketches of Ronald's, and gave an order to him to paint a large
picture, leaving him to choose the subject. In vain by night and by
day did Ronald ponder on what that subject should be. He longed to
make his name immortal by it. He thought once of Tennyson's "Dora,"
and of sketching his wife for the principal figure. He did make a
sketch, but he found that he could not paint Dora's face; he could not
place the dimpling smiles and bright blushes on canvas, and they were
the chief charm. He therefore abandoned the idea.

Standing one day where the sunbeams fell lightly through the thick
myrtles, an inspiration came to him. He would paint a picture of Queen
Guinevere in her gay sweet youth and bright innocent beauty--Guinevere
with her lovely face and golden hair, the white plumes waving and
jewels flashing; the bright figure on the milk-white palfrey shining in
the mellow sunlight that came through the green trees.

Lancelot should ride by her side; he could see every detail of the
picture; he knew just the noble, brave, tender face Sir Lancelot should
have; but where could he find a model for Guinevere? Where was there a
face tha