“Sumptuous sense of costly cheer Pervaded the soft atmosphere, As if charmed walls had shut it in From all the wild world’s noisy din.” Alva watched with delight Floy’s keen appreciation of everything, as she wandered from picture to picture, drinking in their beauty with eager, appreciative eyes. “She has a cultured soul, this lovely wild flower. I shall never be bored by her, no matter how much we are thrown together,” thought Alva, gladly. Then she drew the covering from her latest work and directed Floy to look at it. The girl approached, and the first sight of the painting charmed her, it was so life-like--the dancing youths and maidens were so natural, the woods and water so perfect. “Oh!” she cried, in an ecstasy; and Alva smiled, well pleased. “You see it is not yet completed,” she explained. “See there the figure of Cupid, with his bow and arrow. When I have given him your enchanting face, it will be finished; and I am so impatient to begin that I will commence painting this very morning!” CHAPTER XXXI. NEAR TO DEATH. Alva painted unweariedly for several hours, and declared herself charmed with her lovely, patient model. Floy was enthusiastic, too. She declared that she could not be grateful enough to Miss Beresford for putting her face in that enchanting picture. “Only think!” she cried. “When I am dead and gone--when the light has faded from my eyes--when this form of mine is dust in a forgotten grave--this beauty will live on upon the deathless canvas, and some one may say of me: ‘She was so pretty, this little Floy Fane, that Miss Beresford made her face immortal by painting it as Cupid.’” Alva saw that the girl’s delight was genuine, and it charmed her very much. “I shall put you in other pictures, too,” she said. “Last night, after I left you, the thought came to me to paint your portrait in a simple white gown, and call it ‘Maidenhood.’ Do you like the idea?” “I am charmed!” cried Floy. “You remember Longfellow’s ‘Maidenhood’?” continued Alva; and she murmured some of the verses: “‘Maiden with the meek brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies. “‘Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run: “‘Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet.’” “How old are you, Floy?” “Almost seventeen.” “A charming age--the time of illusions! I am twenty-eight, dear--almost an old maid.” “You do not look twenty.” “So they tell me; but my heart is even older than my years,” with a suppressed sigh; then, smiling: “Have you ever had a lover, Floy? Why, how frightened you look--how deeply you blush! Never mind; you needn’t answer, child; your face tells its own conscious story.”