It was the morning of the exhibition,—a clear, bright morning in September, which seemed to combine all the balmy softness of summer with a freedom from its excessive heat. The sun shone down upon the numberless roofs of the great city, and found its way into the lanes and alleys, lighting them up, for the hour, with a brightness not their own. Through the little window—the only one—by which light was admitted into the room where the Elliotts lodged, the golden rays streamed in, and lent their glory to the face of the sleeping artist, who had not yet awakened from the night’s slumber. There was a knock at the door. Mary opened it; and Mr. Sedley made his appearance. “To-day,” said he, “is the day of the exhibition. Will you accompany me? I have a free pass.” “But my husband?” said she, doubtfully. “I cannot leave him.” “I have provided for that. I have brought a nurse with me, who will take your place, and remain here with your husband. She is skilful and experienced, and you can safely trust him in her hands.” Here the sleeper awoke, and Mary introduced Mr. Sedley to her husband. The latter thanked him warmly for the interest he had manifested in their welfare, and insisted on Mary’s accompanying him to the exhibition. “Though I shall have no part in it,” he said, “I still wish to hear all about it.” Mary could no longer refuse, but, dressing herself as neatly as her limited wardrobe would admit, prepared to accompany Mr. Sedley. To her surprise, she found a private carriage waiting, with the usual accompaniments of a coachman and a footman; the latter of whom very deferentially opened the door of the carriage, and waited for her to enter. She began to entertain new ideas of her companion’s consequence. The carriage dashed boldly through the narrow streets, until it emerged from them into the more fashionable and crowded thoroughfares. Mary found sufficient to amuse her in the splendid carriages, many of them surmounted with a coronet, all hastening in the same direction with themselves. There was an unusual number in the streets,—a circumstance which was easily explained by the interest and curiosity which had been awakened by the exhibition. At length, they reached the magnificent hall in which it was to be held. The porter bowed deferentially to Mr. Sedley as he made way for him to pass. And now they are in the room. What a magnificent collection! It represented the combined genius of the British artists, nearly all of whom had contributed to it. Mary, who, though no artist, had caught something of the spirit from her husband, looked about her in speechless admiration. “This is indeed grand!” said she, at last. “It surpasses my highest expectations.” “It is indeed,” said Mr. Sedley. “England has good cause to be proud of her artists. But see! do you not recognize an old acquaintance?”