rs, the child of illustrious
parents lost at sea; and so she vanished altogether from the atmosphere
of Woodford Cottage.

Olive Rothesay was now straining every nerve towards the completion of
her first exhibited picture--a momentous crisis in every young artist's
life. It was March: always a pleasant month in this mild, sheltered,
neighbourhood, where she had made her home. There, of all the regions
about London, the leaves come earliest, the larks soonest begin to sing,
and the first soft spring breezes blow. But nothing could allure Olive
from that corner of their large drawing-room which she had made her
studio, and where she sat painting from early morning until daylight was
spent. The artist herself formed no unpleasing picture--at least so her
fond mother often thought--as Olive stood before her easel, the light
from the half-closed-up window slanting downwards on her long curls, of
that rare pale gold, the delight of the ancient painters, and now the
especial admiration of Michael Vanbrugh To please her master, Olive,
though now a woman grown, wore her hair still in childish fashion,
falling in most artistic confusion over her neck and shoulders. It
seemed that nature had bestowed on her this great beauty, in order to
veil that defect which, though made far less apparent by her maturer
growth, and a certain art in dress, could never be removed. Still there
was an inexpressible charm in her purely-outlined features to which the
complexion always accompanying pale-gold hair imparted such a delicate,
spiritual colouring. Oftentimes her mother sat and looked at her,
thinking she beheld the very likeness of the angel in her dream.

March was nearly passed. Olive's anxiety that the picture should be
finished, and worthily finished, amounted almost to torture. At last,
when there was but one week left--a week whose every hour of daylight
must be spent in work, the hope and fear were at once terminated by
her mother's sudden illness. Passing it was, and not dangerous; but to
Olive's picture it brought a fatal interruption.

The tender mother more than once begged her to neglect everything but
the picture. But Olive refused. Yet it cost her somewhat--ay, more than
Mrs. Rothesay could understand, to give up a year's hopes. She felt this
the more when came the Monday and Tuesday for sending in pictures to the
Academy.

Heavily these days passed, for there was not now the attendance on the
invalid to occupy Olive's min