bottle had weakened his reason; then, as he continued eating in silence, she took up a cheap periodical and began to read. Sometimes when Woof was in a more genial mood, she occasionally read to him any scrap that pleased her fancy. After a little time, being perhaps anxious to drive away some dark thought, Woof asked her what she was reading. "You shall hear," replied Cecily, and read the following passage aloud:

"Would to God the past could be unfolded once more. That youth with its peaceful enjoyments and innocent dreams could shine upon me yet again. That I could hear the sheep-bell tinkling upon the distant plain, or the melodious chime of the sabbath bell, as I heard it when the bare thought of committing a crime would have filled me with horror. How terrible is now the thought that this bright sun but a few hours ago illuminated the white cliffs of my native land. That yonder wave now breaking in foam upon the beach may have washed those shores. That this gentle wind may have fanned cheeks that I love. Oh, how gladly would I slave upon the mountain, or perish in the dark mine, to regain once more the noble pride I have lost. The pride of calling myself an honest man."

Whatever feelings had passed through her listener's mind as Cecily read the passage, it was certain he had been touched by it, for he repeated softly, "I thought so once-yes, I thought so once indeed."

Cecily looked at him astonished, while Woof, to hide his emotion, went to the window and looked out. In a moment he came back again, and said

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Cecily, watch that man a moment. As soon as he leaves the court tell me." The man Woof alluded to was dressed as a countryman, and, as far as the felt hat and smock-frock went, he might have passed for an inhabitant of Ivy Bridge; but his gait and the keen expression of his face satisfied Cecily, now her attention was drawn to him, that his rural garb was assumed.

"He has gone, father," said Cecily, as the man, with apparent carelessness, turned out of the court into the main street.

Woof started up hurriedly. The subdued feelings of a few moments before had now vanished entirely; but he looked pale and agitated.

"What is the matter?" said Cecily, alarmed. 66 Aré you ill ?"

"No, no, child, not ill; half mad, perhaps; but, there-there, it is nothing that concerns you." Then musing a moment, he said, "Let me see-this is the last day of the revel. Let Jack take the van to Stanford-le-hope. I will meet you there in two or three days; but mind, not a word about me to anybody. If that countryman or anybody else should meet you, and ask any questions, tell them your name is Woof, and nothing

more.'

Why, father, what other name could I tell them ?" said the girl, surprised. "To be sure," said Woof, with a coarse laugh—“what indeed.”

CHAPTER IV.

HIGH ART AND LOW FINANCES.

ROLAND persevered with his studies, and Mr. Gaffyr watched him with great interest, allowing him to come to his little gallery as often as he pleased, to take copies of whatever pictures he fancied, and amusing himself at the same time by running comments upon everything Roland did. While Roland was one day endeavouring to make out the subject of a smoky-looking old master, which his patron valued greatly, Mr. Gaffyr came

in.

"Ah! master student," said he, "you are thinking that picture wants varnish. Has it ever struck you what an important ingredient varnish is in our modern life ?”

Roland confessed he had not seen it in that light; but Mr. Gaffyr, who had, as an organist would say, pulled out another stop, and who had the faculty of finding sermons in pictures as well as in stones, said, "When I lived in London, my windows looked out upon a busy street, where I had great varieties of human character to study from, and I took especial note of some who passed my window at about the same hour each day. There was a pompous old gentleman, with a face like mahogany, a wellto-do individual-an individual worth a plum-an individual who not unfrequently as he walked jingled some gold and silver pleasantly in the pockets of his unmentionables. The consciousness that he was a warm man-a man respected on 'Change -a man on whom grim merchants and heads of mighty firms smiled approvingly -brought a cheerful glow to his ruby visage, which almost made him look bene

volent; but that smile had no warmth in it. It was only varnish. He was neither just, nor benevolent, nor warm-hearted, nor in short, anything but a consummate hypocrite and a devoted worshipper of mammon. If I had had the task of writing his epitaph, it should simply have been-Varnish.

"At nearly the same time each day came an individual of another type, with a carefully elaborated mustache and a patriarchal beard. You never saw better fitting pantaloons nor a more faultless necktie. His gloves were perfection, his hat glossy as a raven's wing. And in what magnificent saloons of the West-end doth this gentleman spend his days, you ask. I answer, not in any magnificent saloons. He spent his days overlooking a hundred pale-faced, famished, stunted, hopeless, forlorn women, stitching for bare life in a stifling workshop to keep up the resplendence of this Varnish. If you should ever set up your carriage, Roland (and when wandering exiles take possession of mighty thrones, and colliery boys achieve greatness and tombs in Westminster Abbey, and gardeners plan palaces that put Egyptian temples to shame, we don't know what may happen), I repeat, then, if you ever set up a carriage, say to the builder, 'Now, my good man, make it of any colour or shape you please, but pray be particular about the varnish.' But now to painting again. Are you as ambitious as ever to be an artist ?"

"Oh yes, indeed, Mr. Gaffyr."

"Well, then, I can give you a chance now. My friend, Professor Malztig, of the Royal Academy, has just come home from the Continent. If he will take you as a pupil, he will show you as much in three months as I can in as many years." "I should like it amazingly," said Roland, "but-" and the colour mounted

room till it should suit the great artist's convenience or caprice to see them.

That Professor Malztig was a capricious man even his warmest admirers could not deny; but, although he had singular and unpopular theories of art himself, he was generally considered one of the best teachers of the day. He attempted great things, taking for his subjects the mos: striking scenes in such works as the Tes pest, Paradise Lost, Byron's Manfred and Cain, Faust, and other imaginative works. In some instances he succeeded well, but in others it was felt that the subtle power

the dim impalpable idea which could b sufficiently shadowed forth in words to satisfy the comprehension of the readet, frequently escaped altogether in the attempt to transfer it to the canvas. Still they were remarkable works, and Roland was staring at one of them in the anteroom, struck dumb with astonishment and pleasure, when the Professor entered and invited them into another room, and he was startled to behold a man quite the reverse of all the ideas he had conjure up while looking at this work.

The aspect and general appearance this high-priest of art was such as to overthrow at once many of Roland's highflown notions of the ideal life of a painte, and his delicacy was shocked when he sav that the eminent professor was decided unblushingly dirty; that he smelt strongly of tobacco; that the brown holland blous which he wore, instead of being the smart neatly-fitting, dazzlingly clean article a costume which he had been led to believe from pictures of student life, was full of holes, and the material hardly to be recognised for the patches of paint tha decorated it; a piece of old rope also in the place of a belt did not add to the elegance of the professor's costume.

And not only the man but the place was dirty, dusty, unbrushed, unscrubbed. disarranged the very pictures and sketches scattered about, some of the being of rare excellence, and requiras only a little more tone and finish to mak: them really valuable—were thrown int odd corners, as though the painter bad an utter contempt for all that was not stamped with the highest excellence.

Roland-young enthusiast-was almost pained to see that an anti-chivalrous lay figure of a crusader had given the Geddess of Love an ugly blow on her chees with his sword; while a grim Puritan frowned defiance on a charming fortuneteller; a ruddy Bacchus was handing

overflowing cup to Luther and Melancthon as they sat translating the Bible; a blind Belisarius held his cap to Quentin Matsys' miser; and a clown was grinning through a horse-collar at the preaching of St. Paul at Athens. This jumble of incongruities was not so displeasing to him as the general want of comfort and order unfortunately too conspicuous everywhere. His regret, however, at the outward appearance of things was modified by the noble expression of the professor's face. Spite of dirt and untidiness, he saw in the quick flashing eye, the bold contour of the features, the heavy full brows, and the wide expanse of the head in the region which phrenologists have indicated as the seat of the ideal and reflective qualities, that Genius sat enthroned in that teeming brain. He forgot in a moment the unfavourable impression he had formed, and became a hero-worshipper directly.

Mr. Gaffyr was warmly received. He stated his views respecting Roland, and gave the professor some idea of the temperament of his future pupil. While he did so Malztig glanced at Roland occasionally, as if to see if his own impressions agreed with those of his friend. Roland coloured a little under the inspection; but the free, kind manner of the professor soon reassured him.

"In the meantime," said Mr. Gaffyr, "I must run up to the Temple, and see how my nephew gets on," and he ran out, leaving Roland with the professor.

Malztig having resided many years in England, prided himself on being a perfect master of our language; but the comical accent-half French half German-in which he addressed Roland, made it difficult for him to repress a smile.

"Ah, vare good," said he, turning to Roland; "you will be von arteiste den ?" "I hope to become one," answered Roland.

"Vat vill you paint? Vill you paint de leetle boys at school, ven de dame has gone out. Von puts on de old lady's looking-glass-no, dat is not rightde spectacles. Anoder make vare handsome picture of the old lady on de slate, instead of putting down de figures; another dip his finger in de ink, and make himself a beautiful mustache; anoder rides a grande chasse vid de dame's valking stick. Ever so many sit upon de floor and play de game wie marbles. Only one poor, pale, leetle shild you shall see sit in

de corner, and try to learn a lesson; but it is vare difficult, and day make so moche noise. Vat is dat one of dem say?— De Mistress is coming back;' he hold up his finger for dem to be quiet. Vill you paint like dat? De critics say dat is de natural style."

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'Oh, no, sir," said Roland, hastily; he had been told such pictures sold well, but felt certain he should never paint in that style; it was so homely, so commonplace. A faint smile played round the professor's lips. He had been used to this sort of thing, as every young pupil began with a horror of the natural style. They wanted to produce something imaginative, something ideal, something, in fact-not to mince the matter-like nothing in heaven, or earth, or the waters under the earth. The professor gave a prolonged "Ah!" then continued:

-

"Vill you like de marine view. On de left dere is a bit of shalk cliff; in de centre dere is a boat wiz de fisherman belonging; in de foreground some brown sand; in de distance noting at all but ze sea, and ze sky, and ze leetle ship or two. Vill you paint so ?"

'No, thank you, sir. I am afraid that style will not suit me either. There is too much sameness and monotony."

Roland again caught the professor's peculiar smile, and felt he was being quizzed, but took it good temperedly.

Ah, you must be vare hard to please. Vat tink you of forest scenes? de shady lanes, vere ze trees meet at ze top, and dere is noting but green, all but ze leetle piece of blue sky."

Roland thought such subjects were much too confined. He wanted something larger, more comprehensive. All this seemed very sketchy work to take little bits of nature and magnify them into large pictures. The subject, when elaborated, always looked too small for the canvas.

The professor was pleased to hear Roland express his opinion freely, and then asked what branch of art he would like to study, since nothing he had suggested pleased him.

Roland thought it was high art he wished to study. But the professor showed little mercy to those who aimed at high art, and began to get impatient. "Show me vat you have done," said he. Roland opened a small portfolio, but in his haste to hand it to the artist he opened it at the wrong place. Instead of a scene of mythological lore, in which a great