Let us see if his precaution was a wise one. It was the last sitting. On the following day the lady was to depart with a distinguished company of singers, on a long professional tour through the Western and Southern cities. She had risen, for the hour was passed, and stood looking for the last time on the beautiful works of the artist, which adorned the room. “Do you remember,” said Martin, approaching her, “I promised to show you the portrait which I called the Sunrise, pardon me that I have not done so before, this is the one.” He raised his hand and turned to the light a small picture, which for the few past days had looked upon the wall. A broken exclamation of surprise, rather than the usual tribute of warm praise, escaped the young creature. “Did _you_ paint this?” she asked. “Pray tell me when and how?” she added, recovering her self-possession immediately. “I was a youth, very poor and needy, having some talent, and a great deal of taste for sketching and painting. Very unfortunately, as I thought, I was forced either to altogether resign this employment so delightful to me, or to pursue it in order to supply myself with food and clothes. To me it must not be a pastime—I could not hesitate long—it became my profession. But I had, what to you may seem an inconceivable dislike to painting faces merely as a workman paints letters on a sign. I imagined that it was just as easy to win the smiles of dame Fortune by picturing only the exceedingly beautiful, and giving them emblematic names, and I was not altogether wrong. Passing one day through the streets of this very city, I came upon a group of children playing—one of that little band struck me as being nothing short of perfection, I could think of nothing as I looked on her, but how beautiful a sunrise!—how splendid will be the day that ensues! At my request the child guided me to her home, it was a poor one, and therein bore a great resemblance to my own. The mother consented that I should take the child’s likeness, and—this is it, I never saw the little one again. Afterward, as I have told you, for many years I traveled in Europe, but though constantly on the look out, I never found a Noonday worthy to follow a Sunrise like this child’s. I thank you, madam, that I have in you, and in my own city, at last found what Europe could not show me.” “May I ask,” said the lady, with face slightly averted from the gaze of Martin Gray, “may I ask the name of the girl?” It was the question which of all others the artist most wished her to propose, and he watched her closely, as in a careless tone that belied his glance, he said— “I remember it very well—it was Alice Flynn!” “Thank you—it is indeed a lovely picture! You have amply deserved, sir, all the honors that are, or can be awarded to you.”