Round the room the girls passed, looking at the pictures with more or less interest and understanding. Irene kept apart and spoke little, going from canvas to canvas, passing this with an indifferent glance, and that with a look of contempt or displeasure, standing long before another, absorbed in delight or awe, and scrutinising the next with critical composure. Suddenly her attention was directed to a landscape hung rather high, at a distance from where she stood, and she darted across the room and stood for a moment before it. Turning round, she took from the hand of a companion one of the few catalogues serving the whole party, hastily turned the leaves until she found the number; read, then went direct to a table upon which stood writing material, folded a piece of paper, wrote upon it, and, carrying a chair to the place where the landscape hung, mounted, and stuck the written paper within the frame.

Miss Ingram, with most of her pupils, was in a smaller room, where was placed the chef d'œuvre of the collection; but this extraordinary procedure was reported to her, and she immediately advanced with a look of severity to where Irene was still standing.

"Miss Laureston," she said "your conduct is most strange and reprehensible. What can be its meaning?"

"There is nothing strange in what I have done, and nothing wrong," she said, with a forced quietness, but repressed excitement glowing in her eyes. "That view is a scene on the Arno, a few miles above Florence, and was painted by my father. The catalogue has only 'a landscape,' and no artist's name given. I have only supplied the needed information."

"It is natural you should be interested by finding a work of your father," Miss Ingram said more mildly; "still, this is a most unwarrantable liberty. I request you will remove the paper instantly."

Then the suppressed passion burst forth.

"No, ma'am, I cannot obey you. My father is being forgotten. Am I, his child, not to do the little I can to keep his name in remembrance? Sir," she said, to Miss Ingram's intense displeasure and embarrassment, approaching a tall, distinguishedlooking young man who had entered the room a few minutes before, "I appeal to you, as an impartial judge." The young man turned round with a gesture of haughty surprise, quickly exchanged for a look of undisguised admiration, as he caught sight of the speaker.

Sir," she went on, "my father was a painter. He was a man of mighty genius; his place was with the great masters; his fame would have lasted for ever, even as theirs. But he lived poor, and

almost unknown, because he was preparing for the great work he had to do. And, sir, the time came. The grand conception was matured, he commenced, worked on the canvas two days, then was struck down by fever. He died, and the world never knew its loss. And, sir, one of the small pictures he executed for sale, during these years of vain preparation, is here, and the catalogue gives neither subject nor artist's name—both unknown. And I, sir, who know so well, have simply supplied the lacking information. In what have I done wrong? This lady, my governess, requires that I should remove that paper, disavow my knowledge of my father's work. Am I under any obligation to do so?"

"If I may be permitted," said the gentleman, turning to Miss Ingram, "to express an opinion; it is the wish of the committee to give the subject and the artist's name, whenever possible. I think they would be greatly obliged to the young lady for the information given."

"Excuse me, I can permit no interference between myself and one of my pupils. Miss Laureston, I desire you will fetch a chair and remove that paper."

The young man coldly bowed assent; he did not, however, act upon the hint given and resume his inspection of the collection, but remained, his eyes still resting on Irene.

She stood motionless, silent, as if pondering some resolve. "Take it down, dear," whispered one of her companions. Suddenly she looked up, her eyes flashing, a glow over her whole countenance.

"I will obey; I will take it down," she said. Bat my father's name shall not be utterly forgotten in the world of Art. I will be a painter myself, I feel I have the power. Not to be like you, father," she said, looking up to the picture; "but to keep our name from dying out quite yet." And she moved to reach the chair.

"Allow me," said the young man, raising his hand.

:

"No, sir; I should prefer "Miss Ingram interposed. Vainly he reached down the paper, but did not hand it to Irene. "If my influence suffices, Miss Laureston," he said, "it shall be affixed with the sanction of the committee."

A flush of pleasure overspread her face. "I shall be grateful to you for ever," she said; but Miss Ingram, deeply annoyed, prevented any further thanks, led her young ladies to the extreme end of the room, and permitted no further wandering from her oversight, while they remained within the building. That the promise made had been redeemed, Irene knew later, when John brought her privately a newspaper supplying a notice of the exhibition, and containing the following words :-" No. 432, 'On

the Arno,' is the work of the late Mr. Lanreston, formerly, we believe, a resident in this city, and an artist of very great promise, whose career was prematurely ended at Florence a few years ago."

From that time a conflict of purpose commenced between governess and pupil. Day and night Irene's mind was occupied by the one thought how best to accomplish the resolve-herself to become a painter. And although she did not deliberately neglect her duties, this absorption of mind certainly led to a measure of remissness. One difficulty in the falfilment of her wishes, which might have stood in the way, did not present itself; for artists' materials she was not at any loss. To the care of Dr. Marston had been sent with the portrait a chest containing other mementoes of her father, crowded sketch books, and one-the last-only half filled, pencils, crayons, his palette and brushes, colours, a roll of canvas, and other requirements of his art. Of this chest Irene, through John Rivers, asked the possession, having it transferred, by Mrs. Rivers's permission, to Summer Street, that, being in John's keeping, she might be able to obtain from it quietly whatever she might require.

To attempt the secret practice of oil-painting under the conditions of life in a young ladies' school, was out of the question; but, with pencil and crayon, she could partially test her powers, and that was more practicable. Fortunately for her design, she shared a very small sleeping-room with one school fellow possessing good powers of sleeping on undisturbed, and for four successive mornings she rose when the clock of St. Simon's struck four, and worked with delight until the getting-up bell sounded through the house. But on the fourth day Miss Ingram's suspicions were aroused by observing in Irene a most unusual drowsiness. The next morning the early rising was discovered, and, for the fature, effectually guarded against, by her removal to a larger, wellfilled sleeping-room. Nor was this all; throughout the days any attempt at drawing was systematically discouraged and hindered.

Miss Ingram entirely disbelieved in and disapproved her pupil's ambitious projects. She looked upon painting, even if she were successful, which she did not for a moment believe she would be, as a somewhat unwomanly occupation, and she thought the poverty in which Irene's father had left her mother and herself, ought to have convinced her that it was also very uncertainly remunerative. Nor did the mortifying nature of the incident in which Irene's present infatuation had originated tend to conciliation, or the fact that she had resolutely declined, once and again, the offer that she should learn drawing, free of extra charge, with other young ladies taught by Miss Ackland.

unaware.

Bitter was Irene's vexation. During those morning hours she had become conscious of possessing a mastery over her pencil-a power of realising her conceptions of which she had been hitherto It seemed to her as if a latent faculty had been sud denly quickened into activity; she doubted not the possibility of realising her resolve. If she were allowed only to occupy an occasional hour, her ability would at last become manifest; and oh! if she could but obtain two or three days for uninterrupted, unobserved work, then she would prove at once, beyond dispute, that she was under no delusion! It was heartless, tyrannical, thus to oppose her! Influenced by,such feelings as these, although not openly rebellious, Irene's manner indicated dissatisfaction and a sense of injury.

On both sides an appeal was made to Mrs. Weatherill. In reply Miss Ingram received a letter asking kindly forbearance, yet, as she understood it, giving sanction to repressive measures; and Irene, one in which the rebukes were of the mildest, the appreciation of her desire to save her father's name from oblivion warmly sympathetic, yet counselling patience for the present, and submission to the will of her instructress.

Mrs. Walton, also, was asked by Miss Ingram to exert her dissuasive influence, and this she did most willingly, for she considered an artist's career would be fraught with many perils for a beautiful, unprotected girl, and that a quiet life as teacher in a ladies' school was far preferable. Only John had tried to induce his cousin to modify her opposition, and to allow Irene a few hours in each week for the practice of drawing. But his intervention was quite in vain. "Mise Laureston might take drawing lessons from Miss Ackland if she wished, but these foolish selfdirected attempts should never be sanctioned."

One hope Irene had. The holidays were approaching, and surely in the well-earned leisure of vacation time she should be allowed to employ herself, in part, according to her own desire.

But this hope was doomed to disappointment. Three of the younger children remained for the holidays-two West Indians, the other through illness in her home; and Miss Ingram considered it would be well for her own health and that of her pupils to pay a visit with them to the seaside. Much of the care of the children devolved upon Irene; and with bathing, walks upon the esplanade, loiterings on the beach, and the inconvenience of the crowded lodgings, opportunity there was none for artistic work, and she returned to begin again the long, unbroken half year, fretted, restless, and impatient.

Miss Ingram herself perceived with concern that her pupil was not looking well. Her appetite failed; she lay awake for hours

devising wild schemes for the accomplishment of her purpose, and when she slept she was harassed by feverish dreams.

66

John, I can't bear this much longer," Irene said, a few weeks after the close of the holidays. "It is tyrannical and unjust to treat me so ! But let who may oppose, I must find a way, and I will! Bear it longer I will not, and I cannot !"

"I am very sorry," John said. "I have tried to persuade my cousin to yield somewhat; it is of no use. But, dear, cannot you be patient awhile? A way will doubtless open sooner or later, and the powers you have will not die because of some delay in their exercise."

"No," she sai, passionately, "it is I who shall die! I can't sleep, I can't eat. I'm just like a steam-engine kept at high pressure, and the safety-valve tied down,-you know what happens then." For all Westhaven had recently been shocked by the dreadful results of an explosion so caused on board a little pleasure steamer plying on the river.

"John," Irene continued, in a low voice, "if this goes on I shall do something desperate; I shall run away. Last week I did put up some things ready, and I had a plan where to go and what to do. But when I thought of its being found out that I was gone, and no one knew where, I could not bear to think how unhappy Mrs. Weatherill would be, and I thought of you, so I did not go. But I shall have to do it some day!"

"Oh, Irene! You never would do anything so wrong, so foolish Promise me-promise me-you never will!"

"I don't want to do anything wrong; I have tried to do my duty. But there are 'needs that may turn wrong into right-so I think! I must paint, and I will. All I want is a few days to myself to give proof whether I have the power or not. This I will have;

and, John, you must help me."

"Promise me, Irene," he said, earnestly, "promise me solemnly that you will not run away, that you will do nothing without firs telling me. Promise this, and I will engage to help you in any way I rightly can."

"Then I promise," she said. "I shall find a plan."

At that moment Hilda's entrance prevented any further private conference, and shortly after Irene left, leaving John sorely perturbed in mind.

Was it right to know so much without trying to convey some hint of caution to his cousin ? If under some fresh provocation or accession of impatience, Irene should break her promise, and he should hear that she was missing, how could he ever forgive himself? Yet how could he speak the least word without a breach of confidence she would highly resent? And surely there could be