It was at this stage in their fortunes that it was announced, that, at the annual exhibition of paintings, the prize already alluded to would be awarded to the most meritorious production of art. This offer fired Arthur’s ambition. Why should not he, filled as he was with the inspiration of genius,—why should not he gain it? It was not impossible. He would at least try. He selected as his subject “The Transfiguration of the Saviour.” Without entering into the details of the painting, which could only be done properly by an artist, it is sufficient to say that the conception was a grand one, and the execution of a high character. But, in the mean time, how were they to live? The painting on which Arthur was now engaged was a work of time; and it was a considerable period before he could hope to derive any pecuniary profit from it. Thus far, Mary had assisted her husband, as far as she was able, by obtaining work from the slop-shops, which amounted to a mere pittance. But they had learned to live frugally under that sternest of teachers,—Necessity. II. It was early in the morning of the day after that on which our story commences. Arthur, worn out by his midnight vigils, had not yet risen. Mary was astir: she had already prepared and eaten a frugal meal; and the small table—the only one in the apartment—was covered with a white cloth, on which was spread, with as tempting an array as the nature of the food would admit, the breakfast intended for her husband. Suddenly, there was a violent knock at the door. Mary glanced towards her husband,—who was still buried in deep sleep,—apprehensive that he might be awakened, and then went to the door and opened it. A coarse-featured man entered. “Good morning, Mrs. Elliott,” was his salutation. “You see I have come for my week’s rent. I am not likely to forget that.” “The rent!” said Mary, apprehensively. “I am sorry, Mr. Mudge; but I haven’t quite got it ready. I didn’t succeed in finishing the work I had on hand as soon as I anticipated; and I must ask your indulgence for a day or two.” “Oh, yes! the old story!” said the man, with a sneer. “And if I should come again in a day or two, you wouldn’t have finished the work you have on hand, and would ask for a day or two more. Oh, yes! I am used to such games.” “But, Mr. Mudge, have I failed you before? and should I be likely to begin now? If you will come on Tuesday, you shall have the money, if I have to pawn some of my furniture to raise it.” Mr. Mudge was half persuaded, but still sullen. “There’s your husband,—why doesn’t he work? He is able to. You wouldn’t find any difficulty in raising the rent, if he would do something.” “Arthur works already beyond his strength,” was the wife’s slightly indignant rejoinder (for she could not bear to have any imputation cast upon _him_); “and some day we shall see what will come of it.”