hould like to know, too, sir; but
whatever it is I don't care, so long as I and Grandfather are together."

Here Waife re-entered. "Well, how goes on the picture?"

VANCE.--"Tolerably, for the first sitting; I require two more."

WAIFE.--"Certainly; only--only" (he drew aside Vance, and whispered),
"only the day after to-morrow, I fear I shall want the money. It is an
occasion that never will occur again: I would seize it."

VANCE.--"Take the money now."

WAIFE.--"Well, thank you, sir; you are sure now that we shall not run
away; and I accept your kindness; it will make all safe."

Vance, with surprising alacrity, slipped the sovereigns into the old
man's hand; for truth to say, though thrifty, the artist was really
generous. His organ of caution was large, but that of acquisitiveness
moderate. Moreover, in those moments when his soul expanded with his
art, he was insensibly less alive to the value of money. And strange it
is that, though States strive to fix for that commodity the most abiding
standards, yet the value of money to the individual who regards it
shifts and fluctuates, goes up and down half-a-dozen times a day.
For any part, I honestly declare that there are hours in the
twenty-four--such, for instance, as that just before breakfast, or that
succeeding a page of this History in which I have been put out of temper
with my performance and myself--when any one in want of five shillings
at my disposal would find my value of that sum put it quite out of his
reach; while at other times--just after dinner, for instance, or when I
have effected what seems to me a happy stroke, or a good bit of colour,
in this historical composition--the value of those five shillings is
so much depreciated that I might be,--I think so, at least,--I might be
almost tempted to give them away for nothing. Under some such mysterious
influences in the money-market, Vance therefore felt not the loss of
his three sovereigns; and returning to his easel, drove away Lionel and
Sophy, who had taken that opportunity to gaze on the canvas.

"Don't do her justice at all," quoth Lionel; "all the features
exaggerated."

"And you pretend to paint!" returned Vance, in great scorn, and throwing
a cloth over his canvas. "To-morrow, Mr. Waife, the same hour. Now,
Lionel, get your hat, and come away."

Vance carried off the canvas, and Lionel followed slowly. Sophy gazed
at their departing forms from the open window; Waife stumped about the
ro