Mr. Glaston. 'But it is the symbolism of the picture that is most valuable. Wonderful thought that is of the star--Astarte, you know --shedding the light by which the woman views the picture of one of her lovers.' 'Oh!' exclaimed Mrs. Crawford in a shocked way, forgetting for the moment that they were talking on Art. Then she recollected herself and added apologetically, 'They were dreadful young women, you know, dear.' 'Marvellous passion there is in that face,' continued the young man. 'It contains a lifetime of thought--of suffering. It is a poem--it is a precious composition of intricate harmonies.' 'Intricate! I should think it is,' said Harwood to Lottie, in the distant window. 'Hush!' cried the girl, 'the high-priest is beginning to speak.' 'The picture is perhaps the only one in existence that may be said to be the direct result of the three arts as they are termed, though we prefer to think that there is not the least distinction between the methods of painting, poetry, and music,' said Mr. Glaston. 'I chanced to drop in to the studio of my friend who painted this, and I found him in a sad state of despondency. He had nearly all of the details of the picture filled in; the figure was as perfect as it is at present--all except the expression of the face. “I have been thinking about it for days,” said the poor fellow, and I could see that his face was haggard with suffering; “but only now and again has the expression I want passed across my mind, and I have been unable to catch it.” I looked at the unfinished picture,' continued Mr. Glaston, 'and I saw what he wanted. I stood before the picture in silence for some time, and then I composed and repeated a sonnet which I fancied contained the missing expression of passion. He sprang up and seized my hand, and his face brightened with happiness: I had given him the absent idea, and I left him painting enthusiastically. A few days after, however, I got a line from him entreating me to come to him. I was by his side in an hour, and I found him in his former state of despondency. “It has passed away again,” he said, “and I want you to repeat your sonnet.” Unfortunately I had forgotten every line of the sonnet, and when I told him so he was in agony. But I begged of him not to despair. I brought the picture and placed it before me on a piano. I looked at it and composed an impromptu that I thought suggested the exact passion he wanted for the face. The painter stood listening with his head bowed down to his hands. When I ended he caught up the picture. “I see it all clearly,” he cried; “you have saved me--you have saved the picture.” Two days afterwards he sent it to me finished as it is now.' 'Wonderful! is it not, Daireen?' said Mrs. Crawford, as the girl turned away after a little pause. 'The face,' said Daireen gently; 'I don't want ever to see it again. Let us look at something else.'