The poplar trees on Körös Island are clothing themselves with green, while yellow and blue flowers dot the turf. The whole island is a veritable little paradise. It forms the summer residence of a family of wealth and taste. On the broad veranda, which is shaded from the morning sun by a damask awning, stands a cradle hung with dainty white curtains; and in the cradle sleeps a little baby. In a willow chair at the foot of the cradle sits the mother, in a white, lace-trimmed wrapper, her hair falling in natural curls over her shoulders and bosom. A young man sits before an easel opposite the lady, and paints her miniature, while at the other end of the veranda a three-year-old boy is engaged in coaxing a big Newfoundland dog to serve as pony to his little master. This young mother and these children are Ödön Baradlay's wife and children, and the young man is his brother Jenő. Without Jenő to bear her company, the young wife might lose her reason, thinking of her absent husband, imagining his perils, and waiting weeks for any news from him. Jenő knows how to dispel her fears: for every anxiety he has an antidote, and when all else fails he rides to the next town and brings back cheering tidings--in which, alas, there may be but few words of truth. The young artist is not satisfied with his picture. He has a decided artistic bent and talks of going to Rome to study; but this likeness that he is now trying to paint baffles him. It seems to lack something; although the features are correctly drawn, the whole has a strange and unnatural look. "Béla, come here, little nephew." The boy left the Newfoundland dog and ran to his uncle. "Look here, look at this picture and tell me who it is." The little fellow stared a moment at the painting with his great blue eyes. "A pretty lady," he answered. "Don't you know your mamma, Béla?" asked the artist. "My mamma doesn't look like that," declared the boy, and ran back to his four-footed playmate. "The likeness is good," said Aranka encouragingly; "I am sure it is." "But I am sure it is not," protested Jenő, "and the fault is yours. When you sit to me you are all the time worrying about Ödön, and that produces exactly the expression I wish to avoid. We want to surprise him with the picture, and he mustn't see you looking so anxious and sad." "But how can I help it?" Alas, what tireless efforts the young man had put forth to cheer up his sister-in-law! How carefully he had hidden his own anxious forebodings and predicted an early triumph for the cause of freedom, when his own heavy heart told him it could not be. A faint cry from the wee mite of humanity in the cradle diverted the mother's attention, and as she bent over her baby and its cry turned to a laugh, the young artist caught at last on her face the expression he had been waiting for,--the tender, happy look of a fond mother. * * * * *