The morning of Monday had come, and with it came also the beautiful portrait of Elise. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for one brief hour, Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture. Sad, sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger face had grown very dear, and it was with a mournful regret that she looked her last into those deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice blessed. Many emotions were weighing at her heart, for she felt how far better would it have been that her young head had been laid beneath the green sod that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting heart should have been buried in the cold selfishness of Edgar Loring’s soul. * * * * * The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf—passengers were hurrying on board, captain and mate were vociferating orders, flags were flying, waters glancing—all wore the bright and joyous air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of grays came dashing down to the pier—Mr. Hastings and Emily alighted, and were followed from the box by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board ship. Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched by the tears which gushed from the happy eyes of that mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which murmured thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted, Emily and Mrs. Revere, like the friends of years, and not as acquaintances of a few short weeks, and over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in the early summer over the lone grave of Elise, and sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy and warm upon the pale marble that bore her name. Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian and her aged parent, and to care for the much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells, and the father and daughter entered their carriage and drove away. When Emily reached home, she found an elegant note from Edgar Loring, requesting permission to call upon her that evening. Ah! a few short weeks ago, how her heart would have fluttered at those words! Now, going up to her room she seated herself at her beautiful escritoir, and penned the following words— “MR. LORING—I have this moment come in, and found your note awaiting me. A previous engagement will prevent my receiving the honor of a call from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a check for $200, which my father requests me to forward to you in payment for _the portrait of Elise Revere_. EMILY HASTINGS.” * * * * * In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left the city—he had gone to seek his fortunes in the far South.