“You will pardon me,” suggested he blandly, “but when one sees a portrait in a studio, the inference is that a sitting or two has taken place?” “You are right. She came here secretly, and without the knowledge of her family, at the risk of her honor and reputation, thus affording me the strongest proof of her love. It was cruel of me,” continued the young artist, “to accept this proof of her entire devotion, and yet not only did I accept it, but I pleaded for it on my bended knee, for how else was I to hear the music of her voice, or gladden my eyes with her beauty? We love each other, but a gulf wider than the stormy sea divides us. She is an heiress, come of a proud and haughty line of nobles, while I----” Andre paused, waiting for some words wither of encouragement or censure; but the Count remained silent, and the young man continued,-- “Do you know who I am? A poor foundling, placed in the Hospital of Vendome, the illicit offspring of some poor betrayed girl. I started in the world with twenty francs in my pocket, and found my way to Paris; since then I have earned my bread by my daily work. You only see here the more brilliant side of my life; for an artist here--I am a common work-man elsewhere.” If M. de Mussidan remained silent, it was from extreme admiration of the noble character, which was so unexpectedly revealed to him, and he was endeavoring to conceal it. “She knows all this,” pursued Andre, “and yet she loves me. It was here, in this very room, that she vowed that she could never be the wife of another. Not a month ago, a gentleman, well born, wealthy, and fascinating, with every characteristic that a woman could love, was a suitor for her hand. She went boldly to him, told him the story of our love, and, like a noble-hearted gentleman, he withdrew at once, and to-day is my best and kindest friend. Now, Marquis, would you like to see this young girl’s picture?” “Yes,” answered the Count, “and I shall feel deeply grateful to you for such a mark of confidence.” Andre went to the picture, but as he touched the curtain he turned quickly towards his visitor. “No,” said he, “I can no longer continue this farce; it is unworthy of me.” M. de Mussidan turned pale. “I am about to see Sabine de Mussidan’s portrait. Draw the curtain.” Andre obeyed, and for a moment the Count stood entranced before the work of genius that met his eyes. “It is she!” said the father. “Her very smile; the same soft light in her eyes. It is exquisite!”