A few more weeks rolled by, and the sacrifice had been completed—the victim had been offered up at the shrine of selfishness and false pride. The arrangements of Herbert were so liberal as to free Mr. Selwyn from all apprehensions for the future. He was not avaricious; and in his anxiety to please the fading bride his money had literally purchased, he was willing to lavish his fortune with a profuse hand. He loved Julia as much as his calm heart was capable of loving any thing; and in the sunny clime to which they were bound, he confidently looked forward to her recovery from the effects of what he called her slight cold. Her parents had never for an instant allowed him to suspect that, on her part, there was the least repugnance to the union; and she had coquetted with him so long, that she shrank from laying before his cold gaze, the history of her secret affection for his rival. They embarked for Europe, and Julia bade a last farewell to the land of her birth. As its shores faded in the distance, she felt the sad conviction that her eyes had rested on them for the last time. So far from renovating her exhausted frame, the sea-voyage had a contrary effect; and when they at last entered the bay of Naples, the young bride was carried on deck to breathe her last sigh in sight of the land which contained the unconscious Mervin. The letter of the kind physician had not reached its destination, and Mervin was still pursuing his brilliant career with the fond hope of soon being in a situation to claim his betrothed. * * * * * A solemn procession passed a group of artists collected together at a corner of one of the principal streets. The corpse of a young female was borne past them on a flower-strewn bier, to one of the principal hotels. A close carriage followed, containing a single mourner. An inquiry was made as to who the deceased was. “A young American lady.” An undefinable feeling of sympathy with his bereaved countryman, induced Mervin to separate from the group, and join the procession. As it entered the hotel, he was about to follow and offer his services, when he met a servant belonging to the establishment to whom he was well known. The man stopped and addressed him. “The American signor who has just arrived wishes an artist to take the likeness of his wife, before she is buried. As you are a fellow-countryman, I was about to seek you, signor—for your pictures are justly renowned, and this lady is even now very beautiful. The gentleman is too deeply afflicted to see you himself.” “What is his name, Guiseppe?” “Signor Hibut, or Hobut—I cannot tell which.” The sound of the name, in the Italian’s pronunciation, appeared so little like the real one, that his old rival never once occurred to Mervin—and without further hesitation he dispatched a servant to his studio to bring the requisite materials for his task.