Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to sail in a little more than two weeks—they must have the picture at that time if ever, and he said: “I am aware that this is a painting of a high order, and I am willing to pay you whatever you demand, but I wish immediately to become its possessor. It can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but at the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take it, if at all.” Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in the elegant saloons of Mr. Hastings, his picture would be seen by quite as many critical and appreciative eyes as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that the fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation of the greatest value. The arrangement was at length completed, and Emily and her father departed, leaving Edgar flushed and excited with what seemed his wonderful success. He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a little cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity of her conscious love in the presence of her father, and proud and joyous in the near approach of the triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed the day in new visions of glory for the future. That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that Elise Revere kneeled before him, with her pale face upturned to his, pleading him to have pity on her lone and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full moonlight flooded the room, and lay brightest on a table by his couch, where bloomed in a vase rare flowers—the gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing the flowers to his lips, crushed down the remorseful feeling which had almost struggled into life, and rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him. The days passed away, and Edgar did not see Emily—she had gone into the country with a sick friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home, a beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise Revere in the exhibition room, had attracted crowds of admirers, and the young artist’s praises had been spoken by many lips. During this time also, Emily had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and gratitude could hardly find expression. She had insisted that the sum raised by herself and her few Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose to which it was first appropriated, and Emily felt that it was best to allow their hearts this consolation.