He was a young man, and the few years of his life, if they had proved heavy and sorrowful in experience, had at least left no dark impress on his forehead. His figure was strikingly elegant, and the face manly, and very beautiful; it might well have been taken to represent the Genius of Thought, so calm, elevated, and ennobled by spiritual excellence was it. The artist was a poor man; you could guess that by the worn garments in which he was attired, for from the figure, bearing, and whole appearance of the youth, it was evident that he was not of that class of geniuses who affect shabbiness in personal appearance, in the name of eccentricity. And he was an ambitious young man, too. A glance into his studio, where constantly and diligently he toiled in his vocation, had told you that. It would seem by the constant emendations he would make, and by the finished style he labored to impart to all he did, that nothing short of superior excellence or perfection in his art, would satisfy him. He has come into the open air this morning, not because he is wearied with his work, for it is a source of continual delight to him—neither in search of amusement, but to ponder on a thought which has long harbored in his mind—three pictures should be his fame. From his quiet studio he would send into the world a moral lesson that should delight and instruct, and leave in the world an abiding moral influence. Not only did Martin Gray long to win for himself a proud name on the earth, but with the poets and the preachers he would fain lift up his voice and teach—he also would be a priest and a reformer, and by his works he would testify to the infinite beauty of holiness and virtue. The artist’s heart beat joyfully as he revolved this idea in his mind—his hope was high—his hand was skillful. “If my name only ranks with the masters’ some day—if I can do some real and substantial good in my generation! I cannot labor too hard to secure these ends,” he said to himself as he passed, unconscious of the noise and confusion about him, along the street. Mechanically turning at the first corner, Martin moved on to quarters of the city where the strife and confusion of life were more subdued. At once he stood silent, as though changed suddenly to marble, then a heart-cheering cry of joy and surprise burst from him, and “I have found it! I have found it!” he cried—“here is sunrise at last!” There were children playing in the street, poor little children, boys and girls, whose only play-ground was that hot and dusty place. But in the person of one, the quick eye of the artist detected extraordinary beauty, though decked in rags almost as extraordinary. The unconscious child was a girl, six or seven years of age, faultless in form and feature, the very embodiment of one of Martin Gray’s ideals.