zed
body,--and Mr. Leopold's stalwart frame, full, florid face, and
well-rounded features were a surprise and disappointment. I expected the
Raphaelesque,--tender grace and melancholy; but about these frank blue
eyes and full red lips lurked the good-nature of a healthy school-boy,
the quaint, unchecked humor of a man upon whose life had fallen the
sunshine of prosperity.

"So, you are the young man, Mr. Allen, who painted the Spring Flowers
and the Maiden's Hand," he said, in a full, rich voice, and with a
genial smile. "It is evident, you, too, are in your spring-time, while
I, near my autumn, can afford to refer to the peculiarities of that
period. I cannot regret that you have a life of struggle before you; for
it is not merely the pleasing fancy which paints fine pictures. You
would have let a sunbeam play over that little hand, had you possessed
the technical knowledge to manage it: now, wouldn't you?"

I crimsoned, assenting as though to a crime.

"Effects of sunlight on bright colors are sometimes very striking," he
continued. "A crimson flower wet with dew and nodding in sunshine is a
kind of tremulous rainbow, which a man might well like to copy. We must
make a compact to help each other, Mr. Allen, I want to study human
nature, and would like an introduction to all the oddities of the
village."

I promised to make him acquainted with them, wondering meanwhile that he
craved for his culture what I regarded as the chief obstacle to mine.

"You shall meet Sandy at the forge some day, when work is over, and
visit the villagers," said Mr. Lang. "Miss Darry, shall you or I take
Mr. Allen to see the picture? He may like a longer inspection of it than
some of us."

I looked imploringly at Miss Darry, who, slipping her hand within my
arm, led me into a room corresponding to the conservatory in size and
position. The walls were mostly covered with cabinet-pictures, and among
several larger ones was the recent addition by Mr. Leopold. At my first
glance, I was conscious of that sense of disappointment which comes to
us when our imagination devises an ideal beauty, which human hands rob
of delicacy by the very act of embodiment: moreover, how could I, in my
dreamy, undeveloped boy-life, with a fancy just awakened, and revelling
in its own tropical creations, appreciate the simple strength, the grand
repose of the picture before me? What appeared barren to me in the man
and his works was born of the very depth of a