The woman had held her breath to listen to his words, and as his voice ceased, the long-suppressed emotion burst forth, and she passionately cried— “Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be yours!” As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his calm voice— “My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject, concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.” A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the noise and bustle of the crowded street. She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles, he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter. “Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio, and offered the luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat. His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off her delicate gloves. Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.