liage than is commonly attempted in painting. The
scene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of dark Scotch
firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the prevailing
freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of the gnarled
trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-tree, whose foliage
was of a brilliant golden green--not golden from autumnal mellowness, but
from the sunshine and the very immaturity of the scarce expanded leaves.
Upon this bough, that stood out in bold relief against the sombre firs,
were seated an amorous pair of turtle doves, whose soft sad-coloured
plumage afforded a contrast of another nature; and beneath it a young
girl was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back and
masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped, lips
parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased yet earnest
contemplation of those feathered lovers--too deeply absorbed in each
other to notice her.

I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few
touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on their
return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must
have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and
setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash and sprang in, and
set himself before my picture.

'Very pretty, i'faith,' said he, after attentively regarding it for a few
seconds; 'and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening
into summer--morning just approaching noon--girlhood just ripening into
womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She's a sweet creature!
but why didn't you make her black hair?'

'I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her
blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.'

'Upon my word--a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn't
the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she's thinking there will come a
time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond
and fervent a lover; and she's thinking how pleasant it will be, and how
tender and faithful he will find her.'

'And perhaps,' suggested I, 'how tender and faithful she shall find him.'

'Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope's
imaginings at such an age.'

'Do you call that, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?'

'No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once, but now,
I