I had another cousin: this cousin was a man, twenty-four years old when he first came, by a mere chance, to the town where we lived. He was, like you, a painter,--not one of those poor romantic vagabonds who multiply pictures of themselves in every new composition, and who starve on their own sighs. This man was in the enjoyment of a handsome competence, and made painting his profession because he loved the art. My cousin who resided in the place knew this man-cousin of mine. He paid her a visit; and while he was in her house, my wife happened to go in. Thus the acquaintance began. The next day he came to see me. I received him cordially, and invited him to visit us often. At length he became perfectly at home in our house. I was pleased with this,--for I began to feel that Eudora drew heavily on my time, insisting too much on my society; and I was only glad to escape by leaving her to the society of my relative,--blind fool that I was! But I must do him justice. He was a noble specimen of a fresh-hearted young man,--loyal and honorable. Yet how could he escape the fascination of Eudora's presence?--how tear himself away from it, when he had no thought that it was dangerous? At my request, my wife sat to him for a small portrait: this is it which I have permitted you to copy. By-and-by, and really to keep Eudora from engrossing too much of my time, I allowed her to go out with our artist-cousin; and in company they examined paintings, and viewed scenery, and talked, and walked, and sometimes read together. One evening, while seated in my library, deeply abstracted, the door opened and Eudora entered. I looked up, saw who it was, and relapsed into study. "My husband," exclaimed she, in a soft, sweet tone, "put down your book; sit upon this sofa; I want to speak with you." I rose, a little petulantly, and did as she desired. She threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me tenderly. "I have something to ask of you," she said,--"something to request." "What is it?" I exclaimed,--almost sharply. "It is that you would not invite Alphonse to come here any more,--that you would never speak of my going out with him again, but encourage his leaving here,--and that you would give me more of your society." "Pray, what does all this mean, Eudora?" I demanded. "Alphonse and you have been quarrelling, I suppose." "No, my husband." "Then, what do you mean by such nonsense?" I asked, in an irritated tone. "I scarcely have courage to tell you," she cried,--"for I fear it will make us both forever miserable." Thoroughly aroused by this astounding avowal, I repeated, in a stern tone and without one touch of sympathy, my demand for an explanation. She knelt lovingly at my feet,--not in a posture submissive or humiliating, but as if thus she could get nearer my heart,--and began, calmly:--