Shortly after this second visit, the sculptor fell desperately ill. He was compelled to give up work; but, on returning from a tour in Italy, prescribed by his physician, he presented himself once more before the widow, who was then in the tenth month of her mourning. He found, this time, a few roses among the cypress, and some smiling colors playing over half-shaded grounds. He brought with him a little model of his statue, done in plaster, and offering in miniature the idea of what his work was to be. "What do you think of the likeness?" he inquired of the widow. "It seems to me a little flattered; my husband was all very well, no doubt; but you are making him an Apollo!" "Really? well, then, I can correct my work by the portrait." "Don't take the trouble--a little more, or a little less like, what does it matter?" "Excuse me, but I am particular about likenesses." "If you absolutely must--" "It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it not? I'll go in there." "It is not there any longer," replied the widow, ringing the bell. "Baptiste," said she to the servant who came in, "bring down the portrait of your master." "The portrait that you sent up to the garret last week, madam?" "Yes." At this moment the door opened, and a young man of distinguished air entered; his manners were easy and familiar; he kissed the fair widow's hand, and tenderly inquired after her health. "Who in the world is this good man in plaster?" asked he, pointing with his finger to the statuette, which the artist had placed upon the mantel-piece. "It is the model of a statue for my husband's tomb." "You are having a statue of him made? The devil! It's very majestic!" "Do you think so?" "It is only great men who are thus cut out of marble, and at full length; it seems to me, too, that the deceased was a very ordinary personage." "In fact, his bust would be sufficient." "Just as you please, madam," said the sculptor. "Well, let it be a bust, then; that's determined!" Two months later, the artist, carrying home the bust, encountered on the stairs a merry party. The widow, giving her hand to the elegant dandy who had caused the statue of the deceased to be cut down, was on her way to the mayor's office, where she was about to take a second oath of conjugal fidelity. If the bust had not been completed, it would willingly have been dispensed with. When, some time later, the artist called for his money, there was an outcry about the price; and it required very little less than a threat of legal proceedings, before the widow, consoled and remarried, concluded by resigning herself to pay for this funeral homage, reduced as it was, to the memory of her departed husband. A NEW SERIES OF TALES BY MISS MARTINEAU.