Year: 1870

There was no use of denying it-no,


not even to himself-Hugh Beverly was


in love, and deeply in love, too. There


was one sweet face which haunted him all
day long; and when the day was over,
and night came with its dreams, the same
sweet image still fingered near him.


Hugh was an artist, and labored faith
fully before the easel from morning until
night. But no matter what scene be por-
trayed, every stroke of his pencil express
ed some thought of her he loved. If he
painted landscape, the presence of her
the beloved one, though unseen by others,
sent glory to all the scene, in the ar
lists eyes. He fancied her sitting beside
the brook which trickled down from the
hillside, or approaching, like dream of
beauty, through the far-oA mist of the
valley. If he painted sunset, she was
still there, in the tremulous light of the
evening star, which only awaited the suns
withdrawal to reveal her beauty.


But it was well for the artist that no
eye save his could discern the presence of
Agnes Leigh upon the canvass; and it
would have been better still if Hugh him
self could have banished the face which SO
increasingly haunted him, from his studio,
from his dreams, and from his heart! If
ever sunlight photographed the likeness
of mortal, then had the radiance which
from Agnes Leigh's beautiful eyes i'm
printed her image forever upon the poor
artists soul,


Now the worst of all this romance was.
that Hugh Beverly did not even know
who his divinity was! He did not even
know her name and, more than that, he
had seen her but twice-once at the opera
where her beauty had enthralled him like
a spell; and once in an art gallery, where
she was so absorbed with the pictures as
never to notice him, and where he, the
artist, forgot the pictures, and gazed on
her. And as he gazed, the fire of nev-
er-dying passion sprang up in his heart,
which neither time, nor circumstances,
nor even the hopelessness of his love,
could ever eface. His love seemed, in.
deed, hopeless; for, after those two glimp-
ses, he saw no more. But Hugh was
poet, as well as an artist, and his heart
still remained faithful to the inspirations
of his dreams


The arch little god who delights in tor
menting unhappy lovers sometimes takes
pity on them too; and so he suddenly
changed this unpromising state of affairs |
One morning when Hugh was busly at
work sketching large picture which W as
to be &c Dream of Acadia," there came
soft rap at his door. The absorbed artist
carelessly answered the tap with " Come
in" The door opened, and, We gods
what surprise for Hugh, when she en-
tered she the inevitable she, who had
haunted him day and night, in the spirit
for many months, and now looked in upon
him, a real, living presence of loveliness.
Hugh bowed low to the lady as She enter
ed; but he felt the hot flush mounting to
his brow, and he scarcely knew what he
said, if, indeed, he said anything at all.
But the lady was far more at her ease.


"Are you the artist, Mr.. Hugh Beyer-
y? she said in the sweetest voice in the
world.


Hugh could not help thinking, as he
bowed assent to her inquiry, that this
plain ugly name had mover sounded SO
we'll before


"Ah, well, then, I have little COM
mission for you" And here she produce
ID an ivory miniature, which she handed
% the artist, saying she would like to
lave it copied life size.


Tho miniature was an exquisite speci-
men of art, and revealed the likeness of a
'oung and elegant man. A pang of ieal- !
'usy shot through the artists heart, as he t
,azed upon those handsome features.


May I ask whose likeness this is ?" s
'e said, trying hard, poor fellow, to look t
I