It was not what she said, but the manner of saying it, which told me that I was speaking to one whose faith was a real, living principle, and who recognized the loving hand of the Father of Love, even in the heavy affliction laid upon her. I was touched by what I heard, and resolved to take an early opportunity of improving my acquaintance with the artist and his mother. At present, my engagement called for my moving on, so I shook hands warmly with both, and went on my way to the “big house.” As I neared it, and noted the sweet sylvan peacefulness of the surroundings, I could understand the evident pleasure afforded to the young artist by the scene. Here was an excellent specimen of Scottish castellated architecture, with round towers and high-pitched roofs, the white “harled” walls showing up in marked contrast to the lovely green ivy that in many places clung to them, and in the foreground a verdant lawn studded with trees that had seen centuries of growth--one in particular, a copper-colored beech, lending to the picture a bright tint that was very charming. It was easy to understand such a scene appealing to all that was romantic and artistic in the boy’s mind. On the Sunday following I was delighted to hear the wheels of the invalid-chair passing up the nave of the church just before the commencement of evening service, and still more so to note the keen, intelligent eyes of my young friend looking up into my face as I stood in the pulpit. It is very hard sometimes to explain the cause of one’s confidence; but, somehow or other, I felt I had come into touch with one who would understand me, and who, in his own way, would be a source of encouragement to me. How fully this was realized I only knew when I was called upon to say good-by--for a time--“till the day break and the shadows flee away.” A day or two afterwards I paid my first visit to Jamie’s home. Mrs. Morton herself opened the door in response to my knock, and ushered me into her modest sitting-room. It was a quaint old-fashioned room, with open rafters black with age. Near the big open fireplace Jamie sat in his easy-chair reading. I was introduced to the other members of the little household, and a chair was given to me in the family circle. At first my artist was shy and did not say much; but when I told him of visits I had paid to the National Gallery and the exhibition of the Royal Scottish Academy, in Edinburgh, his eyes sparkled again, and he could not help exclaiming: “I wonder, mother, if I’ll ever be able to gang and see them. My! that would be grand.” My eye happening to light on a beautiful old corner cupboard, through the glass door of which I could see a fine tea set of china, decorated with grotesque dragons in a lovely shade of green, I remarked on the uncommon character of the design. Jamie seemed pleased with my notice of them, and said: