t me; and then it
was that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, she had
expressed a wish to see 'Marmion,' and I had conceived the presumptuous
idea of making her a present of it, and, on my return home, instantly
sent for the smart little volume I had this morning received. But an
apology for invading the hermitage was still necessary; so I had
furnished myself with a blue morocco collar for Arthur's little dog; and
that being given and received, with much more joy and gratitude, on the
part of the receiver, than the worth of the gift or the selfish motive of
the giver deserved, I ventured to ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at
the picture, if it was still there.

'Oh, yes! come in,' said she (for I had met them in the garden). 'It is
finished and framed, all ready for sending away; but give me your last
opinion, and if you can suggest any further improvement, it shall
be--duly considered, at least.'

The picture was strikingly beautiful; it was the very scene itself,
transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed my approbation
in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of displeasing her. She,
however, attentively watched my looks, and her artist's pride was
gratified, no doubt, to read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes. But,
while I gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to be
presented. My heart failed me; but I determined not to be such a fool as
to come away without having made the attempt. It was useless waiting for
an opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for the occasion.
The more plainly and naturally the thing was done, the better, I thought;
so I just looked out of the window to screw up my courage, and then
pulled out the book, turned round, and put it into her hand, with this
short explanation:

'You were wishing to see 'Marmion,' Mrs. Graham; and here it is, if you
will be so kind as to take it.'

A momentary blush suffused her face--perhaps, a blush of sympathetic
shame for such an awkward style of presentation: she gravely examined the
volume on both sides; then silently turned over the leaves, knitting her
brows the while, in serious cogitation; then closed the book, and turning
from it to me, quietly asked the price of it--I felt the hot blood rush
to my face.

'I'm sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,' said she, 'but unless I pay for
the book, I cannot take it.' And she laid it on the table.

'Why cannot you?'

'Because,'--sh