ngue (without knowing herself one), used to
make him grave, or gay, or sad, at will, and watch the effect of her
art upon his countenance; and a very pretty art it is--the _viva voce_
story-teller's--and a rare one among the nations of Europe.

Christie had not learned it in a day; when she began, she used to
tell them like the other Newhaven people, with a noble impartiality of
detail, wearisome to the hearer.

But latterly she had learned to seize the salient parts of a narrative;
her voice had compass, and, like all fine speakers, she traveled over
a great many notes in speaking; her low tones were gorgeously rich, her
upper tones full and sweet; all this, and her beauty, made the hours she
gave him very sweet to our poor artist.

He was wont to bask in her music, and tell her in return how he loved
her, and how happy they were both to be as soon as he had acquired
a name, for a name was wealth, he told her. And although Christie
Johnstone did not let him see how much she took all this to heart and
believed it, it was as sweet music to her as her own honeysuckle breath
to him.

She improved him.

He dropped cigars, and medical students, and similar abominations.

Christie's cool, fresh breath, as she hung over him while painting,
suggested to him that smoking might, peradventure, be a sin against
nature as well as against cleanliness.

And he improved her; she learned from art to look into nature (the usual
process of mind).

She had noticed too little the flickering gold of the leaves at evening,
the purple hills, and the shifting stories and glories of the sky; but
now, whatever she saw him try to imitate, she learned to examine. She
was a woman, and admired sunset, etc., for this boy's sake, and her
whole heart expanded with a new sensation that softened her manner to
all the world, and brightened her personal rays.

This charming picture of mutual affection had hitherto been admired only
by those who figured in it.

But a visitor had now arrived on purpose to inspect it, etc., attracted
by report.

A friend had considerately informed Mrs. Gatty, the artist's mother, and
she had instantly started from Newcastle.

This was the old lady Christie discovered on the stairs.

Her sudden appearance took her son's breath away.

No human event was less likely than that she should be there, yet there
she was.

After the first surprise and affectionate greetings, a misgiving crossed
him, "she must know ab