Our artist and his model had been left together for upwards of three-quarters of an hour, during which time McGuilp had not opened his mouth to exchange a single word with his sitter, a habit of his when unusually engrossed in his work. He had glazed and scumbled, chopped and changed about his drawing, laid on impasto, worked upon the background, and so absorbed was he with his picture, the time had passed as if it had been five minutes. A considerable change, however, had taken place in the portrait. There was more life and vigour, the tints were more natural and the head now stood more out in relief. Helen never once attempted to break the silence, but remained modest and immovable in her position as a statue. Had she been a vain and foolish girl or a coquette, she might have been irritated by the painter's silence, misconstruing it into a sign of insensibility to her charms, but no such thought for a moment entered the head of our Helen. On the contrary, she looked with the deepest awe and reverence on the painter whose art required so much silence and concentration, and instead of calling away his attention from his work by some frivolous remark, she mentally resolved to aid him to the utmost by posing as patiently as it lay in her power. Nevertheless, after a long sitting, a change is apt to come over the face of the sitter. The muscles become flaccid, the colour vanishes, the eye grows vacant, and an expression of languor and weariness takes the place of the bright healthy look that the sitter bore at the commencement. This is especially the case with young people, and so it was with Helen, who, spite of her laudable endeavours to do justice to her portrait painter, had unconsciously grown several shades paler, and had so altered in expression that our artist, finding it impossible to continue his work, deemed it advisable to give his model a little repose. "That will do, Helen, for the present," said he; "take a little rest, until you can call back the roses to your cheek and the life to your eye. There, then, you may look if you like, but there is much to be done yet, I can tell you." "Oh, I think you have done wonders this sitting," said Helen, as she stood contemplating her own portrait from behind the artist's chair, with her head resting on her hand. "It appears to me as like as it can possibly be already. I do not see what more there is to do to it." "Do you not, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Then you are very easily satisfied, but it is not so with us. We artists are the most discontented people under the sun. We know that however well a portrait may be painted, it can never come up to the original, and yet we are never contented, even with our utmost endeavours to approach it." "Then, we who know nothing about your art are happier in our ignorance than the artists themselves who have studied art all their lives," remarked Helen.