“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not, so that Elise were happy—so that I could but find her the books she loved, and save her slight hands from menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care, that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair around her noble head, and it was joy enough to look once into her soft eyes, and see her faint smile at my fond pride. “Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with thoughts of beauty and of poetry, and she talked of things in which I could not sympathize; the world seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for her than for me. I felt that I could not understand my child—hers was a purer and a greater nature than mine, and I looked upon her with a reverent worship. I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected with the spirit within.” “And was there never a portrait of your gifted, beautiful child?” interrupted Emily, in a quivering tone. The question seemed to stir a deep fount of feeling—the stranger’s face flushed, and passionate tears gushed from her eyes. “Ah, yes! but I may not have it—I may not see it long,” she cried. “Oh, my child, I must leave you forever!” Emily was startled by this emotion, but in a few moments the mother became calm and continued: “Not many weeks before Elise’s illness, as we were walking in the city, an artist observed my child, and followed her to our humble home. He praised her loveliness to me, in words which I cannot now remember, though I well recollect their import. He said her beauty was remarkable—was rare. In all his life he had never seen a face to compare with it, never an eye so glorious, so full of soul; he said such beauty should not be lost to the world, and he begged that I would let her sit to him, offering at the same time a liberal compensation. “My heart was filled with a proud joy, but I let Elise decide for herself, and alter many urgent entreaties, she at length consented. Ah, I was very, very happy! I felt that her beauty was not to wither in unappreciation—the world would know of her loveliness—through the artist they might hear of her, and who could tell the happy days in store for my child. And I joyed also to know that now in the bright mornings she would be walking through the gay streets of the city, in the glad, fresh air, instead of bending wearily over her needle-work in our small dark room. “For several mornings I accompanied Elise to the studio of the artist, though I could ill afford the time, but at length I found it utterly impossible, for our daily bread was to be earned, and Elise went alone. I sometimes fancied that when she returned at noon, she looked weary from her long walk, but she never complained, and I only thought her more beautiful than ever. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap her little green purse, heavy with silver, she said languidly—