said the young artist, raising
his head with an almost unconscious affectation of surprise, as though
unexpectedly disturbed at his work.

"You forget all hours, and all human wants, in your zeal for your
beautiful art, Master Gottlob," said the woman. "I bring you your
noon-day repast, which you would never have called for, had I allowed it
to stand by even until sundown. But I have ventured to transgress your
orders. You must be faint with long fasting;" and the old woman made a
movement as if to place the food upon the table before the artist.

"Thanks, good Magdalena! thanks!" said the young man, looking at her
with that sweet smile, and tender expression of his mild blue eyes,
which had procured him, among all who knew him, the constant designation
of "Gentle Gottlob;" but at the same time repelling the porringer. "Not
here. Place the food elsewhere. I will eat anon. I am not hungry now;
and I must not leave my work. I have promised it to his noble reverence
the prior, for the eve of the fete of St Ursula, and to-morrow is the
very day. There is still much to do. It seems as if I could never give
sufficient finish to this face, or impart to it, with my dull colours
and rebellious pencil, that look of heavenly brightness that ought to
dwell upon it. And yet, alas! I would it never could be finished! It
will break my heart to part with it--although I love not my own work,
nor deem it excellent. But still I cherish it--all imperfect as it is--I
know not why; and when to-morrow comes, and I must give it up into his
reverence's hands, it seems that my life and spirit would depart from me
with its loss, and that all around me would be dark and joyless."

After placing the porringer and bread upon a spare corner of the
sculptor's working bench, Magdalena moved gently behind the young man's
chair, and having asked respectfully his pardon, looked over his
shoulder. At the sight of the fair face upon which the young artist was
bestowing so much care, her looks betrayed feelings of surprise, mingled
with much emotion. Once or twice she passed her hand over her eyes, as
if doubting the reality of what she saw. It was some time before she
could sufficiently master her agitation to speak; and when at last she
spoke, after a long-drawn sigh, it was with a tone which still betrayed,
in spite of her efforts, the interest inspired in her by the painter's
work of art.

"It is indeed a fine performance, and right bravely limned," s