s a view of Wildfell
Hall, as seen at early morning from the field below, rising in dark
relief against a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks on the
horizon, faithfully drawn and coloured, and very elegantly and
artistically handled.

'I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,' observed I: 'I must beg
you to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence to interrupt you, we
shall be constrained to regard ourselves as unwelcome intruders.'

'Oh, no!' replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as if startled
into politeness. 'I am not so beset with visitors but that I can readily
spare a few minutes to the few that do favour me with their company.'

'You have almost completed your painting,' said I, approaching to observe
it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree of admiration and
delight than I cared to express. 'A few more touches in the foreground
will finish it, I should think. But why have you called it Fernley
Manor, Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, --shire?' I asked, alluding
to the name she had traced in small characters at the bottom of the
canvas.

But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of impertinence
in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but after a moment's pause,
with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied:--

'Because I have friends--acquaintances at least--in the world, from whom
I desire my present abode to be concealed; and as they might see the
picture, and might possibly recognise the style in spite of the false
initials I have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a false
name to the place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if they
should attempt to trace me out by it.'

'Then you don't intend to keep the picture?' said I, anxious to say
anything to change the subject.

'No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.'

'Mamma sends all her pictures to London,' said Arthur; 'and somebody
sells them for her there, and sends us the money.'

In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty sketch of
Linden-hope from the top of the hill; another view of the old hall
basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer afternoon; and a simple but
striking little picture of a child brooding, with looks of silent but
deep and sorrowful regret, over a handful of withered flowers, with
glimpses of dark low hills and autumnal fields behind it, and a dull
beclouded sky above.

'You see there is a sa