"Don't say anything sorrowful now, or you will set me off into another crying fit," said Isabel, striving to laugh back the tears that came into her eyes, as she turned away, burying her face in the flowers with which she was still encumbered. "Come this way one moment, Edward, I want to speak with you," said young Farnham, drawing the young artist aside. "I want you to paint me a picture, old fellow, anything you please!" "Shall I paint Isabel from memory?" said the young man, with a quiet smile, glancing at the young girl. Farnham blushed. "You can't do it, Joseph; no pencil on earth can paint her! but--but if you are not joking, I should like it of all things." "I can make the effort," was the good-natured reply. "And will?" "And will!" "Thank you, Esmond, you are a capital fellow, now let me--let me. It isn't half what a picture of her would be worth." Here Frederick thrust a bank-note into his friend's hand, blushing like a girl. "Thank you," said Esmond, gently, "my father is so ill, for his sake--the picture shall be my first work." Isabel forgot her other admirers in looking at the two young men, as they stood together contrasted, and yet in many things so much alike; both were tall, and an air of singular refinement distinguished them above all others. In different styles they were remarkably fine-looking young men. The golden hair of the artist had taken a chestnut tinge, but still it was bright with sunny waves, and his eyes had lost nothing of the heavenly expression. His manner too was calm and thoughtful. The sickly boy had become an intelligent man. In everything Fred was a contrast to his friend; passionate and impetuous even in his most noble acts, he carried the fire of an ardent nature in his looks and his manner. His dark eyes were bright with animation, and even Isabel's tresses of purplish black were not more glossy, than the short curling locks that shaded his manly forehead. In everything the young men were contrasts, and yet they loved each other like brothers. "And now, good-bye," said Joseph, with a slight tremor in his voice, but struggling manfully for firmness. Isabel gave him her hand, while she drew down her veil, that he might not see how moist her eyes were becoming. Fred wrung his hand. The bell rang, and many a warm heart leaped painfully to the farewell summons. There arose starting tears, sobs, and the warm clasp of hands, that might never meet again. Then there was a rush to the gangway, a moment's pause and the steamer swung out from its berth, and swept proudly into the river. Isabel stood upon the stern, languidly waving her embroidered handkerchief to a group of admirers gathered on the wharf.