In a narrow cross-street of one of the most obscure suburbs of the city, stood a dilapidated house, the small attic of which was tenanted by an elderly man and his daughter, the former of whom was now lying motionless upon his bed, either insensible or asleep; and to judge from his wasted and ghastly appearance, approaching near the confines of that world where the weary spirit finds release and rest. Beside him, at a small table, sat a young girl of singularly sweet and interesting appearance, without what a common observer would designate beauty, and yet with “something than beauty dearer,” irradiating her calm, pure face; a soul-light from within, shining and giving to it that heavenly expression which reminded one of the angelic faces which beam from the breathing canvas of Raphael. Her soft, brown hair fell back in wavy curls from her smooth brow, and in her dark hazel-eyes, with their long-fringed drooping lids, there was a depth of unrevealed and gentle sensibilities, and a lurking tenderness around her mouth, which indicated timidity and sweetness—some might have thought it weakness, had not the slight and graceful curve of the upper lip rescued it from that suspicion—denoting a firm, if a gentle soul, and a courage strong to dare and endure in the path of woman’s duty, thorny and rugged though that path might chance to be. On the small table before her lay a cluster of snow-white camelias, with a few other flowers of equal beauty. Whence, at so inclement a season, came those frail and delicate blossoms into that bare and lonely attic? A nearer glance informed the gazer that those lovely imitations of Nature’s fairest forms were of wax, moulded by the skill and taste of the young artist into such perfection as to deceive the most practiced eye. Thrown by a series of afflictive dispensations wholly upon her own resources for the support of her sick father and herself, Rosalie La Motte had exercised in turn her various accomplishments to avert the want and destitution which menaced her—but notwithstanding the elegance of the various articles which she produced, she found it difficult to obtain purchasers for them, though she did not hesitate to seek a sale for them at the shops, and even to offer them at the doors of some of the finest houses of the city. They were generally turned over with indifference and dismissed, or purchased at half their value, by those who thought more of making a good bargain than of aiding the pale and delicate girl who was so nobly struggling against poverty and misfortune.