artist." _Connoisseurs_, who
had committed themselves by extravagant praise, sneered at the announcement
of the catalogue, and, after a few inquiries, blandly asserted that no tyro
could have produced it; that the master had wrought out its perfection, and
generously allowed the pupil to monopolize the encomiums. In vain Mr.
Clifton disclaimed the merit, and asserted that he had never touched the
canvas; that she had jealously refused to let him aid her. Incredulous
smiles and unmistakable motions of the head were the sole results of his
expostulation. Electra was indignant at the injustice meted out to her,
and, as might have been expected, rebelled against the verdict. Some weeks
after the close of the exhibition, the OEnone was purchased and the
portrait sent home. Electra placed it on the easel once more, and stood
before it in rapt contemplation. Coldness, silence, neglect, all were
forgotten when she looked into the deep, beautiful eyes, and upon the
broad, bold, matchless brow.

She had not the faintest hope that he would ever cherish a tenderer feeling
for her; but love is a plant of strange growth. A curious plant, truly, and
one which will not bear transplanting, as many a luckless experiment has
proved. To-day, as Electra looked upon her labours, the coils of Time
seemed to fall away; the vista of Eternity opened before her, peopled with
two forms, which on earth walked widely separate paths, and over her
features stole a serene, lifted expression, as if, after painful scaling,
she had risen above the cloud-region and caught the first rays of perpetual
sunshine.

Mr. Clifton had watched her for some moments with lowering brow and jealous
hatred of the picture. Approaching, he looked over her shoulder, and said--

"Electra, I must speak to you; hear me. You hug a phantom to your heart;
Russell does not and will not love you, other than as his cousin."

The blood deserted her face, leaving a greyish pallor, but the eyes sought
his steadily, and the rippling voice lost none of its rich cadence.

"Except as his cousin, I do not expect Russell to love me."

"Oh child! you deceive yourself; this is a hope that you cling to with mad
tenacity."

She wrung her hand from his, and drew her figure to its utmost height.

"No; you must hear me now. I have a right to question you--the right of my
long, silent, faithful love. You may deny it, but that matters little; be
still, and listen. Did you suppose that I was si