Emily’s love for Edgar was but in its early bloom—scarcely known even to herself; yet her pure, true soul would have risen above even a stronger, deeper, more engrossing passion. She had not loved the being now revealed to her, but “a creature of her dreams,” invested with all the beauty and nobleness which he seemed to possess; and it was with her young faith in human goodness still unshaken, that she mourned over the vanishing of this first, and dearest vision of her womanhood. Emily did not meet the family at tea that evening, she “had a headache, and required rest”—but at night when her beloved mother came fondly to inquire if she were ill, she flung herself into her arms and told her all: all Edgar’s flattery and half-revealed love, all his falsehood, all the sad story of the childless mother, and besought her advice and aid in the course upon which she was now resolved. Happy for that young heart that it could breathe out its first sorrow against a mother’s fond cheek—that the pillow of that stricken head was a mother’s loving bosom. CHAPTER III. “The lips that breathe the burning vow By falsehood base unstained must be; The heart to which mine own shall bow, Must worship Honor more than me!” —MRS. OSGOOD. The next morning found Emily and her father in the atelier of Edgar Loring. The artist was not in, but the boy in attendance, to whom they were well known, brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate that Edgar was not present, for Emily, unpracticed at concealment, found it impossible not to betray emotion when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at the same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour when she saw it first. But speedily she regained her composure, and the artist soon entered the room. He looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder yet, when he saw how they were engaged. “You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining your very beautiful picture in your absence,” said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has a very earnest desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I should be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?” Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged, his love strengthened by this mark of preference, and; after a short silence, during which countless thoughts; hurried through his brain, he replied— “I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition, and I had formed no design as to its subsequent disposal, but I cannot decline the honor which you and Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers. I would wish, however, previously to giving it up, that it might be exhibited according to my intention—the rooms open on Monday next.”