ne had been sold to pay her debts.

"This was bad; but my story was my own, and I accordingly despatched it
to 'The Salmagundian,' a periodical of the highest reputation. There it
was published, praised, and further contributions requested. Several
weeks passed away. I indited a poem, entitled, 'Past and Future, or,
Golden and Leaden Hours.' This also appeared in print, and my thirst for
fame was beginning to be satisfied, when a polite note reached me from
'The Salmagundian' office, begging for another tale, and offering to pay
me in _back numbers of the magazine_. I wrote no more."

"Art beguiled you then, perhaps?"

"Alas, yes, the siren! I had taken lessons from a very clever colorist,
and was thoroughly imbued with his enthusiasm. 'I, too, am a painter,' I
took for my motto; and, hiring a small studio in ---- Street, I bought a
large canvas, on which I sketched out a picture which cost me much
money, more time, and many anxious thoughts.

"It represented the interior of a church, at the dim end of which a
marriage was being solemnized. In the foreground, a group of ten people,
in anomalous costumes, was gathered round a youth supposed to be a
rejected and despairing lover, who had fallen on the ground in a swoon.
It was very affecting, I thought.--it would be very effective. Were
_she_ to see it, she would be stung with remorse,--she would behold the
probable effects of her present indifference,--she would relent.

"No one knew of my painting. I would keep it a profound secret, till it
was a complete and glorious success. So I worked on in my quiet studio,
draping before a cheval-glass for my women, attitudinizing and agonizing
for my men, until the last touches were on, the varnish dry, and it was
all ready for the Spring Exhibition. Then came doubts and speculations.
Would it be accepted? Was it good, after all? Would Ellen like it? How
would it seem among so many others? Should I take her to look at it?
Should I tell her it was mine? Who would buy it?

"I had hired my studio under an assumed name, and under an assumed name
sent my picture to the Academy. Now, when I went to see it, I found it,
by some strange chance, hung next to a beautiful portrait by Huntington.
The juxtaposition gave me a new idea. I saw at once what a villanous
daub mine was, and went away oppressed with shame and a new-found
modesty. Some time after this I strolled again into the Exhibition, in
the hope of finding Miss Wilson; as I en