THE INSPIRED ARTIST. 141
He was, he said, a younger son of Sir Walter Mowbray, who had earned his father's displeasure by refusing an alliance with the daughter of a friend, which daughter was an heiress, of great beauty, but of an unbearable disposition. He could not love her, and had been discarded by his father in consequence. This had happened over a year ago, since which time he had suffered every privation, sought for work unceasingly, but almost uselessly. His life and edu- cation unfitted him for almost everything. Now for four months he had suf- fered with a racking cough, and no one would hire him for fear he might die upon their hands.
"But I am stronger than I look. I think I can suit you if you will only try me, sir. You are the first person to whom I have told any part of my history, my pride has been too great, but starvation is a great humbler of pride, and I am starving."
" Oh, papa ! " cried Ethel, her great eyes swimming in tears, her hand pressed to her bosom, her lips trembling, and two bright red spots upon her lily cheeks. Even the bearded lips of the rather grim looking painter quivered slightly as he turned abruptly to his easel.
"You can stay."
Such a light as sprang into Ethel's eyes, as she ran and raised her father's hand to her hps.
"Tut! tut! child, go and give him his dinner," then lower "I think he needs it badly enough."
The girl gladly obeyed, waiting upon him herself with all the grace and pity- ing sweetness of which she was capable.
A month passed, and the painter was charmed with his assistant, who suited him in every respect. Especially he enjoyed his conversation, which was rich and varied, showing the depth of the mind, and the excellence of the education ; and the change had been beneficial to the young man too ; the good home, good care, and plentiful food had done their work, and told their own story in the improved physical strength, and added beauty. The tire- some cough had entirely disappeared.
A year later. Again the studio of Earnest Langdon. The artist was absent ; but Walter Mowbray had usurped his seat, and was seated before the easel, upon which was a picture, supposed to be a likeness of the beauti- ful Ethel, who stood a little to the right, robed in white satin and pearls, but sooth to say the likeness was a very poor one, and no one was more alive to the fact than the artist himself, who sat with his elbow upon his knee, and his chin resting in his hand, intently regarding it with a strange look upon his handsome face, from which all trace of illness had disappeared. Ethel was looking upon his absorbed attitude, with a beautiful, adoring gaze, her eyes seemed to swim in a heavenly light, and her parted lips be about to breathe forth words of music.
Walter looked up, caught the expression, and with a cry of pain of despair, dashed his brush across his work, and burying his face in his hands burst into tears. In an instant the girl was by his side, upon her knees.
" Why, Oh ! why did you do that, Walter ? after all your hard work too ?"
"Why?" he asked bitterly, " because I shall never be a painter, and it is only a useless waste of tiuie. I can paint better with a pen than with a brush. Oh ! Heaven, why was I ever born?"
" Walter, dear ! Walter, do not talk so," she murmured, placing her hand softly on his, and looking up into his eyes.
He put it almost rudely away.
" Don't do that Ethel, you madden me." She looked hurt.
" I — I — madden you, Walter?"
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