There was a deep silence in the room when I entered. Lily was occupied with her drawing, lighted by two tapers burning in a cup half-filled with oil. There was none of that cheerful hope beaming in her fine eyes that usually filled them when she welcomed me. And all the faces in the room looked doleful enough—some rebuff they had certainly met with from some quarter. “I am drawing this for you,” she said, when I sat down beside her and looked at her work, “it is for a parting gift.” “Parting!” I exclaimed; “what are you going to do now, were you successful in your letter to Mr. ——?” “Read it and see,” she said, producing a letter, And I read as follows: “MISS REEVE.—Dear Madam,—Your favor was many days ago received, and now, at my first leisure, I hasten to reply. I regret that an answer similar to that given to many applicants during every week must also be returned to you. I regret this the more, because your communications show talent, but—you need much practice; and, permit me to say, a writer must usually have acquired _some reputation_ before he can receive any ‘golden rewards.’ If you are necessitated to labor, I would advise you that there are many ways less vexatious, and more certain as to their issue, in which you might successfully employ yourself. “I retain the MS. subject to your orders. “Respectfully, etc., “—— ——.” It was with difficulty I could repress my grief, as I looked about that cheerless room, and on the young girl whose disappointment I knew must be so keen; but calmly, and apparently undisturbed, Lily continued her drawing. “What will you do now, Lily?” I asked, anxious to at least break the embarrassing silence. “We are going west next week!” “West! where—how?” “To Illinois. I have borrowed the money—we cannot stay here and starve. I am going there to take a school. If I cannot get a living by writing, there _are_ many other ways—and I will try them at least.” Had she told me her immediate intention of taking a journey to the South Pole, I should have felt my powers of credulity very little more taxed than they were at that moment, so wild and perfectly impracticable seemed the scheme. But Lily had spoken so seriously, and with so much determination, I was constrained to believe her. The picture she was engaged upon—I have it yet—was an imaginative and a striking one. It was a moonlight scene. Beside the water’s edge, among wild rocks, a girl was standing alone—the figure was a likeness of herself—and a very perfect one it was, too. The _expression_ of the sketch was touching in the extreme. “She is looking for peace and rest there,” said Lily, in explanation. “She has sought it so often, but has not found it—and she never will.” “Does she seek it in the right way, Lily?”