they
were looking at it, the artist came in.

"Pardon me, sir," said Anna's father, "for examining your beautiful
picture during your absence, but my daughter has a very earnest desire
to possess it. Is it for sale?"

Edgar replied, "I have painted this picture for the coming artist's
exhibition, and, therefore, I have made no design as to its disposal,
but it would be an honor to me to have you and Miss Anna its purchasers.
I would wish, however, previously to its being given up, that it might
be exhibited, according to my intention, at the rooms, which open on
Monday next."

Mr. H. hesitated--the vessel, which was to carry away the sorrowing
mother, was to sail in a little more than two weeks--they must have the
picture at that time, if ever; and he said to the artist, "I am aware
that this is a beautiful painting, and I will pay you your price, but I
must be allowed to take it at the expiration of ten days, if at all."

Edgar reflected a few moments, and being well aware that, in the mansion
of Mr. Hastings, his elegant picture would be seen by persons of the
most accomplished manners, and of excellent taste, concluded to sell the
picture. The bargain was made and Anna and her father departed, leaving
the artist somewhat elated at the thought of having Mr. H. the owner of
his picture.

That night Edgar dreamed that Flora, who had been buried a few weeks,
and of whose image his picture was the exact resemblance, stood before
him, pleading him to have pity on her lonely mother--he dreamed her hand
clasped his, and he awoke trembling.

He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers
which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would
soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed
him about the picture.

The Monday morning came, and with it the portrait of Flora, which had
been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame
had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the
picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last
time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvas.

The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the
passengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all
wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by a
pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna alighted,
and were followed by a servant, who