“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices, however, are moderate.” “Money is always an object, you know.” “Very true.” “You say two hundred dollars, then.” “Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.” “Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many sittings will you require?” “About half-a-dozen for each picture.” The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the morning. Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful. Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent, however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said— “Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?” So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if half jesting— “Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and pay me in advance for them.” “Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious. “Certainly. Painting is my profession.” “I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?” “Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never overstocked with cash.” “I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?” “For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.” The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison. “You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime, if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.” Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But, as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.