al figure for Endymion?"

"No, no," said Lawrence Newt, laughing; "art must get its ideal out of
the real. I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood Endymion."

"I can't just think of any body," replied Arthur Merlin, musingly,
looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in order to
image to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think of the
candidates for that figure.

"How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?" asked Lawrence Newt.

"Oh, not at all," replied Arthur, promptly; "he's too light, you know."

"Well, let me see," continued the other, "what do you think of that young
Southerner, Sligo Moultrie, who was at Saratoga? I used to think he had
some of the feeling for Hope Wayne that Diana wanted in Endymion, and he
has the face for a picture."

"Oh, he's not at all the person. He's much too dark, you see," answered
Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness.

"There's Alfred Dinks," said Lawrence Newt, smiling.

"Pish!" said Arthur, conclusively.

"Really, I can not think of any body," returned his companion, with a
mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist was
evidently very closely occupied with the composition of his picture. He
half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said,

"I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with a
rich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting into
passion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenly
scornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendid
picture!"

Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescending
Diana. The artist's face was a little raised as he spoke, as if he saw
a stately vision. It was rapt in the intensity of fancy, and Lawrence
knew perfectly well that he saw Hope Wayne's Endymion before him. But at
the same moment his eye fell upon his nephew Abel sitting with a choice
company of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievous
twinkle in Lawrence Newt's eye.

"Eureka! I have Endymion."

Arthur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Newt had suddenly
told him of Miss Wayne's engagement. He came instantly out of the clouds
on Latinos, where he was dreaming.

"What did you say?" asked he.

"Why, of course, how dull I am! Abel will be your Endymion, if you can
get him."

"Who is Abel?" inquired Arthur.

"Why, my nephew, Abel Don Juan Pelham Newt, of Grand Street, a