spent his evenings in
study. His powers of application and endurance were extraordinary, and his
progress was in the same ratio. As he became more and more absorbed in
these pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased. His employer was
particularly impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark on
any subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some necessary
information in connection with his business. He comprehended Russell's
character, and quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy on
the part of the young man, no patronage on that of the employer.

One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door, and entered the
kitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace, engaged in
knitting; her smooth, neat calico dress and spotless linen collar told that
careful hands tended her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her temples
showed broad bands of grey as the evening sun shone on it. She turned her
brown, sightless eyes toward the door, and asked in a low voice--

"Who is it?"

"It is only me, Mrs. Aubrey."

Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the widow's, and kissed her
forehead.

"I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long time since you
were here."

"Yes, a good many weeks, I know, but I could not come."

"Are you well? Your hands and face are cold."

"Yes, thank you, very well. I am always cold, I believe. Hugh says I am.
Here are some flowers from the greenhouse. I brought them because they are
so fragrant; and here, too, are a few oranges from the same place. Hush!
don't thank me, if you please. I wish I could come here oftener. I always
feel better after being with you."

Mrs. Aubrey had finished her knitting, and sat with her hands folded in her
lap, the meek face more than usually serene, the sightless eyes directed
toward her visitor. Sunshine reflected the bare boards under the window,
flashed on the tin vessels ranged on the shelves, and lingered like a halo
around Irene's head. Electra had been drawing at the table in the middle of
the room, and now sat leaning on her hand watching the two at the fire.
Presently Irene approached and began to examine the drawings, which were
fragmentary, except one or two heads, and a sketch taken from the bank
opposite the Falls. After some moments passed in looking over them, Irene
addressed the quiet little figure.

"Have you been to Mr. Clifton's studio?"

"No; who is he?"

"An artist