Then he had seen his beautiful partner in Edinburgh, and made a sketch of her, which he gave her; and by and by he used to run down to Newhaven, and stroll up and down a certain green lane near the town. Next, on Sunday evenings, a long walk together, and then it came to visits at his place now and then. And here. Raphael and Fornarina were inverted, our artist used to work, and Christie tell him stories the while. And, as her voice curled round his heart, he used to smile and look, and lay inspired touches on his subject. And she, an artist of the tongue (without knowing herself one), used to make him grave, or gay, or sad, at will, and watch the effect of her art upon his countenance; and a very pretty art it is--the _viva voce_ story-teller's--and a rare one among the nations of Europe. Christie had not learned it in a day; when she began, she used to tell them like the other Newhaven people, with a noble impartiality of detail, wearisome to the hearer. But latterly she had learned to seize the salient parts of a narrative; her voice had compass, and, like all fine speakers, she traveled over a great many notes in speaking; her low tones were gorgeously rich, her upper tones full and sweet; all this, and her beauty, made the hours she gave him very sweet to our poor artist. He was wont to bask in her music, and tell her in return how he loved her, and how happy they were both to be as soon as he had acquired a name, for a name was wealth, he told her. And although Christie Johnstone did not let him see how much she took all this to heart and believed it, it was as sweet music to her as her own honeysuckle breath to him. She improved him. He dropped cigars, and medical students, and similar abominations. Christie's cool, fresh breath, as she hung over him while painting, suggested to him that smoking might, peradventure, be a sin against nature as well as against cleanliness. And he improved her; she learned from art to look into nature (the usual process of mind). She had noticed too little the flickering gold of the leaves at evening, the purple hills, and the shifting stories and glories of the sky; but now, whatever she saw him try to imitate, she learned to examine. She was a woman, and admired sunset, etc., for this boy's sake, and her whole heart expanded with a new sensation that softened her manner to all the world, and brightened her personal rays. This charming picture of mutual affection had hitherto been admired only by those who figured in it. But a visitor had now arrived on purpose to inspect it, etc., attracted by report. A friend had considerately informed Mrs. Gatty, the artist's mother, and she had instantly started from Newcastle. This was the old lady Christie discovered on the stairs. Her sudden appearance took her son's breath away. No human event was less likely than that she should be there, yet there she was.