The fair young girl was a faithful representation of Star as she had appeared on that day, which they both remembered so vividly, and in the act of severing that lock at his request. She stood with drooping eyes, a flush on her cheek, a half-smile on her beautiful scarlet lips, a shy and modest grace in her posture, while her slender fingers daintily held braid and scissors. Archibald Sherbrooke watched her as she gazed upon his picture, his heart in his earnest glance; while Star, although her eyes were riveted as if fascinated upon the familiar scene, could not say one word regarding it. He had made her very, very lovely, with that sheen upon her hair, those soft, bright curls lying low upon her forehead, which gleamed beneath them like purest ivory; with those half-averted eyes, in which the iris was just discernible, so richly blue, * * “As if the sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall;” with her delicate hands in their pretty act showing to such advantage, and her slight, willowy figure so gracefully posed—so lovely that she could not help the conscious blush which mounted to her temples, nor the quick heart-throbs which stirred the lace upon her bosom; for something whispered to her that his hand had lingered fondly upon that picture, as if over a work that he had loved. “What do you think of my work, Miss Gladstone?” he asked, gravely, and breaking the silence which was becoming oppressive to him. “It—it is very—correct, I think,” she faltered, with averted eyes and deepening color. An anxious gleam shot into his eyes at her reply. “Have I displeased you by putting it on canvas?” he asked, earnestly. “N-o,” she returned, somewhat hesitatingly. “I fear I have,” he said, still more gravely than before. “Do not hesitate to tell me if you are offended, and I will obliterate it with one sweep of my brush.” His eye was full of pain, a deep flush burned on his cheek, while there was a thrill in his low, earnest tone that set her pulses bounding afresh. She glanced up at him, smiling slightly. “No, I am not offended,” she said; “but I’m afraid I appeared very foolish that day to offer you a tress of my yellow hair.” “Have I made the picture appear so?” he asked, quickly. “No; you have made it altogether too beautiful,” she answered, earnestly, and then was covered with confusion at having admitted so much. “Thank you,” he said, brightly, his face clearing. “I could not do that, if I had spent twice the time I did upon it, and”—bending nearer to her, and speaking in a tender tone—“it is a picture that I painted for myself alone; no one has ever seen it before, and I shall always keep it.” He covered it carefully with the cloth again as he ceased speaking.