“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but seriously embarrassed in consequence.” The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face, which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind. “Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly and encouragingly. “In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.” “And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her face. “Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.” The young artist spoke with emotion, and as the last word was uttered, he hid his face with his hands to conceal its troubled expression. Ah! the terrible humiliation of that moment! Never through life was it forgotten, and never through life could memory go back to the time when a confession of his poverty was made, without a shrinking and shuddering of the heart. Some moments elapsed before Clara made any answer; and these were, to Ellison, moments of heart-aching suspense. The truth having been wrung from him by mental torture, a breathless pause followed. “And so you fear,” said Clara, with something like rebuke in her voice, “that I do not love you well enough to share your fortune, be it what it may? Alfred, when I gave you my hand it was with no external or worldly views in my mind. You said you loved me, and my own heart responded fully to the sentiment. In giving you my hand, I gave you myself entirely; for you were virtuous and I could _confide_ in as well as love you. To share with you any condition in life, no matter how many privations it may involve, will always be my highest pleasure— ‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart, Were better far than joy apart.’ “And is this all that troubles you?” she added, in a cheerful voice. “Heaven knows that it is enough, Clara! But what adds to the pain of my embarrassment, is the fact, that for me to marry you with such slender prospects was little more than a deception. It was unjust to you.”