Auburn now took refuge in his studio, vainly striving to forget his chagrin in his late all-engrossing pleasure—painting—the mistress to whom but that morning he had sworn eternal fealty. At length throwing down the brush in despair, he exclaimed, “Heavens, how that face haunts me! And must I leave the city to-morrow, and thus lose the only chance I may ever have of meeting her again. No, I cannot do it! and yet what folly,” he added, “why should I allow such a trifle to disturb me thus? Even should I discover who she is, what good can result to me!” And now the poor artist paced the room despairingly; again he soliloquized: “Yes, I will postpone my journey. I will haunt Broadway, Trinity, the Opera, theatres—I will neither eat nor sleep until I have found her.” At this moment his eye rested upon the roguish face of his cousin Kate, still upon his easel; and the conversation of the morning at once flashed upon him. “_Pshaw!_” he exclaimed, “it can’t be—I can’t be such a simpleton as to have fallen in _love_! Pooh! no, no—it can’t be. _Love!_ ha! ha! ha! ridiculous!—in _love_! No, Miss Kate, all right yet. Let me shake off this idle mood. Love!—nonsense!” and seizing his pallet, he first, somewhat spitefully, removed the provoking portrait from its position, and then commenced copying a beautiful head of Titian. But in vain he toiled. It was soon evident he had forgotten his subject; his head drooped upon his breast; his brush motionless, and for many moments he remained buried in deep thought. Suddenly starting up with such vehemence as nearly to overturn the easel, he seized his hat and rushed from the room, plunged down stairs, and into the street. Up Broadway he once more pushed along, nor paused until C—— street was attained. Here, for a moment, he halted, irresolute, then turning the corner, commenced a deliberate survey of every house, and gazing most pertinaciously at the windows in particular, careless of the attention which his peculiar manner attracted. When, then, he really caught a glimpse of the object of his search peeping through the rich hangings at the window of Mr. Belden, it is no wonder his senses forsook him, and that without a moment’s consideration, he impulsively rushed up the steps, rang the bell, and found himself, as has already been shown, in the presence of that gentleman. One rapid glance around the room betrayed the fair object of his search had disappeared. Then the awkwardness of his position dawned faintly through the maze in which his wits were wandering. But it was too late to retreat, so summoning courage to address Mr. Belden, he inquired, “Can I have the pleasure of speaking with Miss—Miss—your daughter, sir?” A frown gathered dark on the brow of Mr. Belden, as he replied, “Who are you, sir?—and what is your business with Miss Belden, may I ask?”