There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet felt the power of love, who rail about love at first sight as a theory too ridiculous to dwell upon—a chimera only originating in the heads of romantic school-girls and beardless shop-boys; very well, let them have it so; I only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first interview, were favorably impressed; and that a brief intercourse under the same roof cemented their young hearts with all the strength of a first and truthful affection. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the other a heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish was the love which Walter Evertson had conceived for Louisa; a love which he intended to bury within his own throbbing breast—for he dared not flatter himself that it would be returned—she, the heiress of thousands—he, the poor, unfriended artist. Vain resolve! It was the evening with which this chapter commences, that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her his love, and received the blest assurance of her own in return. But their cup of joy was even then embittered by the consciousness that her father, in his cold, selfish nature, would tear their hearts asunder, even though he snapped their life-strings. In the meantime the business which had brought him to the villa was being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Oakly saw themselves to the life on canvas, and now it only remained to consummate his work by portraying the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task! Mrs. Oakly had so far aroused herself from her usual lethargy, as to insist that the figure of Louisa herself should be but secondary in the picture about to be executed. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim figures on sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded frames with eye-balls ever coldly glaring upon one, and would have a large painting of rare design and skill—woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form and face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various were the sketches brought forward for her approval; and whole days, which Evertson wished might never end, were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length furnished the desired _tableau_ although it would be doing injustice to Evertson to imply that he lacked talent or originality—fine as were his sketches, they failed to please Mrs. Oakly, because—she would not be pleased.