I had walked out, hoping to get benefit from the air, when, looking up, I saw my new neighbour gathering cowslips under the hedge. Our eyes met, and in a graceful but (I fancied) rather foreign manner, Theodora curtsied, and offered me her flowers. I took them willingly enough, and we walked on together, talking about wildflowers, and the Cotswold Hills, and the dulness of our town. I took a fancy to the young lady from the first, though she belonged to Miss Clementson, from whom I instinctively shrank. Theodora acquired a habit of frequently coming to see me, and I soon formed a warm attachment to her. She was a simple-hearted, goodnatured girl, though when she came first among us wonderfully ignorant of the ways of life. This was not strange, as she had been placed a boarder in a cheap French school when very young, and consequently had had no opportunity of acquiring any useful practical knowledge. The father, I gathered from Theodora's conversation, had prepared for holy orders, had tried the law, had been in the army. He had wearied himself and his friends with these various expensive changes, and finally tried the profession | of rouge et noir. But Mr. Clementson played honestly, and, in spite of mathematical calculation, lost constantly. Then he would fear some error in his tables, and fall to his wearisome arithmetic again. But he never won. born to be a poor gentleman; and after having travelled half over Europe, accompanied by his elder daughter, for whom he expected a great match, which never came, he subsided into elegant poverty at the Swiss Cottage, recalling his younger daughter from her cheap foreign school. Miss Clementson was hard and imperious, used to foreign ways and foreign living, and from the first she disliked us and our neighbourhood. She was wonderfully clever and brilliant, and said the most cutting, ill-natured things in a quiet, well-bred tone. Used to hotel living and open-air continental life, she had not an idea of English household cares. But Theodora was different. When she saw our neat English ways she liked them, and quite won my Betty's heart by her sweet way of asking instruction in anything that pleased her. She would be so contented and happy to spend an evening with me, listening to my poor talk, that I soon grew fond of her too, and anxiously looked for her almost daily visit. I taught her to cut and shape her own cheap dresses, and for any little help the dear child was too grateful. He was I do not think I should have come to know the young lady so speedily, had not the ancient domestic fallen ill, in consequence of which accident Theodora sought my advice. Martha had been Mrs. Clementson's own maid, and had followed her shiftless master through every change of fortune, often, no doubt, contributing from her own hard-earned savings to his necessities. She knew and kept all the secrets of the family, and Mr. Clementson had abundant reason to dislike the presence of strangers. Our country girls, used to the rough plenty of a farm-house, would have thought very humbly of the light omelette or the dish of small chops which made their one daily principal meal. Still less would they have relished the “café noir," Mr. and Miss Clementson's only luxury. When Martha fell ill, the cares of the house came entirely upon Theodora, who, poor child! worked hard to fulfil tasks beyond her power, and who, while overtasking her strength, was scolded all day long for her mistakes. "We cannot afford to hire another servant, and indeed papa could not bear a stranger in the house," said the poor girl; "and of course my sister Katherine knows nothing of household matters. And poor Martha is ill, and wants barley-water and gruel, and things which I have not the least idea of making. Oh, I wish you would teach me, Miss Elliott!" My very outspoken, but good neighbour, Mrs. Blount, of The Limes, happened to be with me at the time, and could not forbear a sharp word about modern education and fine ladies without fortunes. I was sorry; but Theodora bore it very gently, and I instructed her in what she wanted to know. Mrs. Blount was a kind-hearted creature, and never happier than when giving away something; so on her next baking-day, she made some delicate small loaves and a simple custard for Martha, who had been accustomed to fetch milk and butter from The Limes, and was consequently known to the mistress of the farm. They were returned, with Mr. Clementson's compliments and thanks, and my hasty friend Deborah Blount was exceedingly angry in consequence. Deborah was always of a fiery temper. How matters would have gone at the Swiss Cottage during Martha's illness but for Theodora's good-will and perseverance I cannot tell. Not disheartened by little failures, she soon learned to accomplish tolerably well the necessary tasks, my Betty going in occasionally when Mr. Clementson was out, to perform the rough work. Miss Clementson played her piano, and went out sketching, or stayed at home writing long letters, which she carried out of the town to post; or I warrant you the whole neighbourhood would soon have known the title and address of her correspondent. Mr. Clementson, though an old man, had still a fine voice, and he often sang with his daughter, or amused himself with painting in oils. Neither he nor his elder daughter seemed to take the least heed of the fact that the whole anxiety of the little establishment fell on Theodora, who was accomplished too, and played and sang in a style I liked better than Katherine's, and who could use elegant leisure quite as well. But she was a good, dutiful child, and played the part of Cinderella to perfection. I was sitting in The Limes' parlour one morning, watching the sunlight on the green lawn, and pretending to be busy with my work, while Michael Blount, Deborah's only child, was making up his accounts at the table. He was a fine sunburnt, handsome lad, of one-andtwenty; and was the only person who could confront his mother, when, as she expressed it, her temper was up. door-latch, and I voice saying, mildly, We heard the click of the distinguished Theodora's "I fear there has been some mistake, Mrs. Blount. I sent a child for some butter, yesterday." "Oh, was that a mistake, Miss?" said Deborah, sharply. "No, but you did not give the girl the butter. I will take it in this basket, if you please." "I tell you what, Miss Theodora Clementson, you'll eat no more butter of my making. There." "I am sorry," said Theodora. "Is anything wrong?" 'Wrong, indeed! I think something is wrong! A parcel of incapable young things about a poor, sick serving-woman; and she, poor body! not allowed to accept kindness from her neighbours. "Tis to be hoped, Miss, you have learned to make gruel and puddings by this time; or the good soul will be starved to death." "Oh, Mrs. Blount," continued the sweet voice, in its gentlest music, "I was very sorry about those nice little loaves, and the custard. Martha would have liked them. But, poor papa -however I cannot explain-only do believe that Martha and I are much obliged to you." "I tell you what, Miss Theodora," continued Deborah; "when gentlefolks squander their money, they'd best fling their pride after it; and you may tell Mr. Clementson so, with my compliments. I will send in my bill, and our dealings are at an end." I glanced at Michael. He was listening earnestly, and biting the feather of his pen. Theodora spoke again: "I am sure, Mrs. Blount, that if your kind heart recalls all you have said to me, you must be sorry; for I have never given you any cause of offence. Although you have insulted me, I shall bid you good-morning." Michael went to the window, and watched the trim little figure down the garden-path. I looked up, too; for, in her youth and beauty, she was a pretty sight. Her light cotton gown, plain black mantle, and coarse straw-bonnet were very homely, but attractive and becoming; and she had a sort of skimming walk-half a run indeed-which was equally peculiar and pretty. Mrs. Blount entered, looking somewhat heated. Michael returned demurely to his books. "Make out Mr. Clementson's account, Michael," said she. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Michael. "My dear mother, what makes you so unlike reason this morning? I fancy Miss Clementson would look on me as a mere ploughboy "She would be very unreasonable, then. You have been well-educated, and have a fine property of your own. What have they?" "The little one has temper and patience and courage, mother. She is quite a lady, and I mean to carry her some butter." "No, Michael; send one of the boys It is not fit for you to carry out butter." In some weeks Martha recovered, and left Theodora more at liberty. I do not know how Michael Blount discovered the young lady's visits to me; but after a time her coming was sure to be followed by his knock at the door, and I began to see what I feared would give us all trouble. I certainly never saw two young creatures more fond of each other; but she had not any fortune, and he was scarcely independent while his mother lived. Poor young things! I loved them both very much, and was grieved for them. Meantime I could not be harsh enough to interfere with them, and so they were often together at my frugal table. In order to leave scandal no loophole I shared their walks, though I will not say that I kept very close upon them. So we enjoyed the long autumn evenings, they talking as they walked arm-in-arm, and I making believe to gather orchises, or blackberries, or wild roses, according to the season. I am but a nervous creature, like most aged single women (though Providence has assisted me to bear many trials, some of which I have hinted in my other stories), and I was one morning startled by an early call from Mr. Clementson. The poor gentleman seldom made a call before one o'clock-though in our primitive society everybody dined at one-and a call made at eleven would have been quite proper. So I was startled to see him, and I thought he shook hands but distantly. "I fear, madam, I come upon unpleasant business," he said; "but I trust you will pardon me. I can well conceive that you were unacquainted with the antecedents of my family when you encouraged the acquaintance between my daughter and Mr.-Mr. Blunt-Blount-a person very much beneath her. He has had the effrontery to make her an offer in distinct terms, and the circumstance will give me some trouble, as poor Theodora, who knows very little of the world, is half-inclined to regret the necessary refusal. The young man is very well for his station, I dare say; but I am extremely shocked by his ignorance of ranks." "Not now, mother. I will give you time to think better of it. The family are suffering Poor gentleman! He forgot-or never knew poverty; do not let us add to its weight.-how Theodora had performed the humble Perhaps they really wanted that butter. I will carry them some down." And a mischievous spark stole into Michael's eye. "You carry it?" answered the mother; "you will do no such thing. Indeed, Michael, I should break my heart if you ever took a fancy to either of those girls." household duties of the family during Martha's illness, and how Michael Blount, seeing the young lady going her errands in the town with a basket on her arm, had no great reason to suppose her a much more important person than himself. However, I did not reason with him, but simply gave the promise he required-that I would prevent the young people meeting in my house. So Mr. Clementson went away, and, soon after, Theodora came in. The poor child was full of trouble. Her sister was especially outraged by Theodora's plebeian suitor, for so she called him, though Michael was a most intelligent, gentlemanly fellow; and Katharine had written to Miss Delaval (the owner of the Swiss Cottage, and of much property in the neighbourhood) who was a distant relative, begging her to take charge of Theodora for a month or two, at the close of which period Miss Clementson was to marry a gentleman of good birth but indifferent fortune, lately appointed to some office about the Hanoverian embassy. Miss Delaval was, at this time, a quarrelsome soured spinster lady, of declining health and fickle temper. Mr. Clementson had long ago irrevocably offended her, though she allowed him a small annuity, and permitted him to live rent-free in her cottage, and she disliked Katharine; but Theodora she had never seen, and being just then eager for something new, replied immediately to Miss Clementson's letter, and summoned the younger sister to join her in Paris, where she resided. So Theodora, in much grief, went away. I thought that perhaps in that gay city she would soon forget Michael, and, perchance, make an engagement better pleasing to her friends. turn to fulfil any humble duties which might fall in her way. News will spread in a small town. In a few days a letter came to Mr. Clementson from Paris, and Miss Clementson had a violent fit of hysterics. Miss Delaval approved of Michael Blount, and intended making Theodora her heiress. She had written to her agents to put Greenwood Manor into habitable repair, and desired Mr. Clementson's immediate consent to the marriage, as she wished to come home and live with the young folks. My poor Theodora! Though I knew the warm affection she bore Michael, and rejoiced in the fulfilment of her hopes, I feared she would not have much comfort while Miss Delaval lived under the same roof. Matters were ordered differently; Miss Delaval died suddenly a week after the marriage. Mrs. Blount, prepared to return home, my So Michael and Theodora, now Mr. and friend Deborah still breathing threatening words and refusing the idea of reconciliation, while Mr. Clementson's behaviour was equally characteristic. All smiles and rejoicing, he accepted congratulations as if he had approved the match from the first, and drove daily to Greenwood to superintend the cleaning of the pictures, a sort of useless business which he understood. married Theodora-her old, kind, gentle selfHer hate and jealousy faded away when the clasped her proud sister's hand and spoke sweetly Poor proud Miss Clementson, who had been anything but a kind sister to Theodora, reBut I feared for Michael's peace of mind. her wildest music, or weeping bitter tears of mained alone, while her father was out, playing He had a high, sweet, resolute spirit, not over- hate and jealousy in her solitude. She, the ready to make friends, but capable of the most clever brilliant beauty, was to marry a poor enduring fidelity; and gentle Theodora had crept attaché, while her insignificant-looking sister into his innermost heart. To complete his dis-had become lady of Greenwood, one of the first tress, Mrs. Blount was quite as incensed at his estates in the county. attachment as Mr. Clementson could be, and I believe I was the only person who sympathized with him. He haunted my house that winter, and when I had any letter from Theodora, was mad to see it. Miss Delaval treated the dear child kindly, nay, even munificently, and the good little thing sent home some of her money to her papa, alleging that she really had no need of it, since Miss Delaval provided everything for her. The unamiable Miss Clementson seemed much provoked to jealousy by Theodora's position, though she had been herself the chief agent in sending her to Paris. One morning, about two months after Theodora left, Michael came to me much excited. Miss Delaval had written to him. The Blounts were her tenants, so perhaps that was not so extraordinary; but her letter acknowledged him as Theodora's suitor, and begged him instantly to join her in Paris, adding that if, on personal acquaintance, she felt satisfied with him, she would yield to Theodora's wishes and exert herself to forward his views. His mother would have had him decline the invitation; but I felt more pity, and persuaded him to set out immediately. I knew from Theodora's letters that she was utterly unspoiled by the splendour of her present life, and that she would gladly re There was no resentment of any past bitterness: the sweet creature was simply and to her. purely happy. She disarmed her belligerent mother-in-law at the first embrace, and all has gone smoothly since between Grange and Manor. his character now? Theodora settled a handBut the Poor Gentleman-how could he keep his elder daughter married, to live near her. some annuity on him, and he went away when We heard of the gay company they were keeping, for Katharine and her father both prized the vanities of the world, and I soon foresaw that difficulty would be the result. So it proved in less than two years Mr. Clementson came back to us, poorer and shabbier than ever; and the brilliant Katharine was grateful when her husband obtained, through Michael's influence, a very modest Government situation at the antipodes. The Poor Gentleman went to live at Greenwood, where he enjoys himself very well; for Michael is growing to be a man of mark, and great people visit him. M Clementson is clever at making artificial flies, and has exhausted his original genius in designing: mousetrap. His days pass in a sort of busy frivolous idleness among his books and Michael's dogs and horses. He is constant at church, where he sings the psalms in a rich tremulous bass voice, and is so grand that he seems to have forgotten that phase of his life which presented itself at the Swiss Cottage. Martha is housekeeper at Greenwood-a proud and happy woman. But, in spite of living at Greenwood, the Poor Gentleman is the Poor Gentleman still. By unlucky betting on the "Derby" he reduced his available property to one half-crown only last spring, and if somebody left him ten thousand a-year to-morrow-not a likely thing by the way-the Poor Gentleman would dissipate it very quickly, and without any comfort to himself. He never has "change," and borrows a shilling to reward any humble person who serves him. And the Swiss Cottage is again to let. THE FIRST MONDAY IN MAY. The first Monday in May is one of my field aspiration and struggle, are hidden from the days-nay, it is my field day of the year. I light in that mass of canvass and gold frame! always get up on that morning at a most praise- Gold frame! which has been bought, perhaps, worthy hour, and looking out of window, I am with so much trouble-perhaps, even, with so jubilant if I find it is a clear day, about to have much pinching-all labour lost! How many plenty of sunlight in it; if, on the contrary, I young heads are drooped on that same brilliant find it a dark day-and there are sometimes dark first Monday in May! How many kind handfirst Mondays in May-I am disconsolate, and some young fellows (for your young artists genesay to myself, "How many bearded gentlemen rally are handsome and kind) are sobbing when are at this hour most sad!" for numbers of they think of their month's work, all of no bearded gentlemen living in the metropolis rise avail-no avail whatever! What is it to them early on the first Monday in May. I always eat that there will be more hanging room some day? a tremendous breakfast on that same Monday; They think that some day will never come (and, for I know I shall be so engaged from midday indeed, I myself have an impression that the till sunset, that I shall not have time to eat even event will come off in the week of the four a mouthful of biscuit; and even if I had, how Thursdays, or the month of the three moons); could I eat a mouthful of biscuit in the midst" for hope deferred maketh the heart sick;" and of the Royal Academy crowd? The tremendous breakfast despatched, I make for "the finest site in all Europe," over miles of ground; and having got there, I scale the steps of the Royal Academy, and lean against the black door, beyond which lies so much, while my heart beats. I think I can triumphantly declare that I have been the first of the public to pay my shilling for admission for some years past. I am proud of the assertion; and if the gentleman who always arrives second, and who stares at me so, and who never speaks, and who always looks down upon me, has had any curiosity touching who I am, he can now learn (if he reads this) that I am not the admiring brother of an aspiring artist, but a quill-driver. I wonder what he is? So the second arrival and myself wait till the advent of number three, who is generally an open-eyed stranger, who, seeing two men waiting at a door, and soldiers on guard, is determined to satisfy his curiosity. After number three and four, the arrivals are in groups, and soon the steps are full of well-dressed women, and astonishingly-dressed moustached men. 'Tis but a dismal affair, that standing outside the door of the Royal Academy, and waiting for admission; for many of the waiters are artistes' friends, and many of them find their friends' pictures down there in that artistic limbo to the right. God knows how much work and hope, so they sit in despair, with their heads on their hands. And let no one say that if they shed tears they had better give up, and not struggle further, for they are not fit for the world. No; tears are not incompatible with perseverance and rage of will. I trust the sad young artists have mothers or sisters (if both, the better) near them, and that they will place their hands upon the poor boys' backs, and bid them hope on-hope ever. I do think the pleasantest public sight throughout the whole of England is the rooms of the Royal Academy on the opening daythat is, for a man who has something of a head upon his shoulders, and something of a heart within his ribs. It is the artistic reunion of the year, and far more pleasant than that antecedent, solemn, complimentary dinner. Not a minute passes without the pleasant clatter of "Ah! how do you do?" It is incessant; and my only sorrow on that day of days is that I haven't a score of artist friends to make the inquiry of me; for I know but one or two artist friends, and amongst the pleasant greetings I know what is the solitude of a crowd-a solitude indeed. "Holloa, Wilks!" says one, why I haven't seen you since last opening." "You're looking better," says Wilks, after a pause; and then these too honest souls-honest because their eyes shine as they address each other—exchange, not cards, because they haven't got any, but envelopes. I have seen six exchanges of addresses on envelopes during that opening day. For, you see, the unlucky artists don't (can't sometimes) live long in one place; hence, on this day of days there's a great deal of address giving to go through. And there are the greetings of the "old fellows," men who haven't "been hung" for a score of years, but who have brought out many an artist who will one day put "A." and then "R.A." after his name. They shake hands, badiner a bit (for they are mostly amateur humorists), and then go off to look at "my pupil Smith's bit of rock-work." And, besides, one feels in such good company; there are always a couple of score of aristocratic people in the rooms during the dayaristocratic people whose love of art teaches them to scorn exclusiveness for the time being, and who consent to be pressed, and jostled, and almost ecrasé'd, in waiting to see the painted lions. Nay, indeed, I am afraid they press and jostle with the best of us; and not being able to get at their catalogues, will take information from gentlemen who know something about the pictures, without looking at their catalogues at all. Not that everything is delightful in this delightful reunion; for there is the dust (plenty of it), and the disparaging remarks of Byronic youths, and the astounding dressing of some elderly young ladies (not artists, I should hope) in auburn wigs. And here let me remark upon the vast improvement in the personal appearance of the artists. A few years back a young English artist looked like a mad German fiddler, his hair was so long; his unkempt moustache and beard, too, were very like to a mop. But now! the hair is cut to almost French shortness; the beard preposterous has nearly vanished, and the imperials and moustaches are so far from unkempt, that I am aware of the odours of patchouli and frangipanni as I pass undoubted artists-artists in the palest of kid gloves, bought, I trust and hope, for the occasion. So with the pleasant hum about me, and amidst waves of silk, lace, satin, and congratulation, I ever go about on the first Monday in May looking at the world of pictures. What did I see on that last May-day? What did I see? To Millais!-thy health, Millais! The war is done, but you give us a Scotch Highlander reading a home-letter in the trenches dug in Russian land; and looking on his honest, fair, modest face, who does not wish him well, and hope that he at least may get once more among the heather and hills? All who see the little picture will grow to like the Highlanders better even than they have grown; and some, seeing the picture, will feel sad. Noble art! in a moment to command smiles or tears. Why the bookman's work must be laboured through for time upon time, before he can create such effect; and what bookman could draw tears by simply telling of a poor soldier reading a home-letter, with death menacing him! A second draught of Millais-a draught which gives courage to meet the dangers, ills, and vexations of life, and defy them: I mean "The Rescue of a Heretic." In an old Spanish document written in the old city of Valladolid, in the good old time, there is the history of the escape of a heretic-a heretic who fell into the hands of Christian ecclesiastics, which ecclesiastics, being good Christians, determined upon burning a weak girl, to the glory and honour of Christ; and being merciful, they sent two friars to confess the obstinate heretic" previous to the "act of faith"-or, rather, they thought they did; for under the friar's habit, one of the two wore a heart beating with courage, hope, and will; beating with the courage of all courage-the courage of affection. Picture the steadfast girl; picture the heretic in her cold cell, waiting for death; picture the convulsive, irrepressible shudder which creeps over her, as the iron of the prison-door clanks, as the door is thrown back, and as the two hooded men stand before her. Picture her flittingly thinking of home and youth and crushed hopes, and then imagine her countenance as she sees emerging from the friendly concealing cowl the head of him she loves best on earth-he who has braved the danger of death to rescue her. Imagine her almost unbelieving as she sees-imagine her as she sees him cast himself upon his aged companion, wind a voice-stifling bandage about his would-be tell-tale mouth, draw to the trembling hands with the rope-girdle, menace him with a well-pointed knife; see her motionless with joy, her arms stretched out towards him as he winds about her the habit he has stripped from the body of the now bound monk. Then, with the sharp knife still in his hand (so that its friendly point may save them both from monkish fire if the daring truth is learnt), they go forth with measured walk, with stooped heads, with HOPE hope of liberty, and life, and holy love. Out from the black prison to the green fields and trees-to God's mountains and great rivers. Then imagine the English artist learning this tale-reading the great struggle through the medium of the report of a legal investigation, and saying "I will create." Then-then on an unmeaning flat of canvass he paints a world of power, at which the world may come and gaze, and some part of it be enraptured. He has chosen that scene of the drama when the brave man is throwing the monkish habit about the body of the girl. Misery to the poor wretch who should oppose him: he would lose a hundred lives had he them to lose-such a purpose has the false monk upon his face. The girl, too, drinks in through her eyes the wellknown features, and trusts the energetic figure wholly. We know by the catalogue that they were saved-we know that the brave heart won the fair lady; but as we look we fear for them— fear that there may be a lurking jailor near at hand, who will give the alarm and freeze their hopes. Great, glorious, and good, this picture (if not perfect) is an acquisition to the world. Millais has another picture, telling another beau C |