I remember well one August afternoon, warm and breezy, when sitting together on the bench that stood by the porch, we looked from within the cool shadow of the house and through the air quivering with heat, on the ardent sunshine that seemed to vivify every object on which it touched. The garden flowers around us had that vivid brilliancy of hue of which the shade deprives them, to lend them, it is true, a more pensive grace; even the old sun-dial wore a gay look, and seemed to mark the hour as if it cared not for the passing of time. Every glittering leaf of the two poplars lightly trembled and appeared instinct with being; the garden- door stood open, and gave a bright though narrow glimpse of the lane, with its yellow path, its low green hedge, and beyond it a blue line of horizon. There was no scenery, no landscape, scarcely even that picturesque grace which every-day objects sometimes wear, but with that warm sunshine, that dazzling light and air so transparently clear, none could look and say that there was not beauty. For if Summer possesses not the green hope of Spring, the brown, meditative loveliness of Autumn, it has a glow, a fullness, a superabundance of life quite its own. Earth is truly living and animate then; she and the sun have it all their way, and seem to rejoice--he in his power and strength--she in her life and beauty. "'Faith, this is pleasant!" observed Cornelius, throwing himself back on the bench, "a summer's day never can be too hot or too long--eh, Daisy?" "I suppose not, Cornelius, but I hope it is not for me you are staying here, because I am quite rested." "So you want me to go up and work." "You know, Cornelius, you often say there is nothing like painting pictures." "No more there is; and you must learn and paint pictures too. Well, you do not look transported." Nor was I. My few attempts at drawing had convinced me that Nature had not intended me to shine in Art. "What do I want to paint pictures for?" I asked. "You do; that is enough." "But to be my pupil?" "Yes, that would be pleasant." "To work in the same studio; have an easel--" "Near yours. Yes, Cornelius, I should like that." "Yes," said a very sweet, but very cold voice, "the artist is loved better than his art." We both looked up to the back-parlour window above us, whence the voice proceeded. Miriam was standing there in the half-shadow of the room; her fair head was bare; her cashmere scarf fell back from her graceful shoulders; one hand held the light lace bonnet which she had taken off, the other, ungloved and as transparently fair as alabaster, rested on the dark iron bar of the balcony. She looked down at us, smiling from above, calm, like a beautiful image in her frame. Cornelius looked up, gave a short joyous laugh, and lightly bounding over the three stone steps, he vanished under the ivied porch, and was by her side in a minute.