Gervase stooped aside, under pretence of picking up his easel-stick, but in reality to dash

away a tear.

"You are a good child, Andrea; but you must look onward-you are not always to be an artist's errand-boy."

Andrew sighed. "That is a trouble," said he; "I should like to live with artists all my life, they are so free, so happy, and they see so much beauty! I shall never be strong enough for a facchino, nor wise enough for a cicerone; what then can I do?"

"If you were strong or wise enough, Andrea, you should never be either a facchino or a cicerone; I will keep you myself first."

"Ah, you are too good," answered the child, running up and embracing him, "my mother loves you for taking care of me, I am sure." Gervase smiled sadly, and kissed the ripe red lips that were held up to him.

CHAP. III.

Yes; always the mother. Andrea had struck this note during all the years he had been with the artist; struck it with a tender perseverance: a strong faith in the goodness of the endeared object of his love, that was deeply touching to the world-worn Gervase.

Masterman had caught the world's eye, and was sunning himself in substantial golden rays: now in Paris, now in London, and now even in St. Petersburg did he pursue his profession of portrait painter among the rich and the noble. In the closet of the minister-in the chamber of the monarch-in the boudoir of the princess he plied his trade; for truly that branch of art is a trade.

And often after a hard day's work, striving to put a little expression where Heaven had written an impressive Nothing, or labouring to preserve a likeness while he calmed down the wicked lines the world had marked out, alike as a warning and a guide, would the jaded artist, putting on his old cloak-the companion of many a merry freak-steal out and refresh himself by looking on at the quarrels, flirtations, and sports of the lower classes.

'Here at least," he would say," Nature speaks

Picture to yourself a large light room with numerous draperies, lay-figures, half-finished paintings, musical instruments, foils, a sword, and many pieces of armour, scattered carelessly about.

At one end of the room, on a truckle bed, lay a man of about forty, very pale, and worn with sickness.

At a window near him was an easel, and at a painting, supported on the easel, a young man of nineteen or twenty was gazing earnestly, "You see, Andrea," said the elder man, "I cannot hope that my hand will be steady enough before next Friday at the earliest, and the picture ought to be off before that time. You must try what you can do."

"Oh, Gervase, I can't think of it. You are too indulgent in your opinion of my powers. I am not half equal to it. They must wait for the picture."

"Yes, that is very well; but, my good Andrea, we must not wait for the money we so much want. And I really think you could do it."

Andrea shook his head. "It would be profane for me to meddle with your handiwork, Gervase. Suppose I go and offer for sale my little 'Angels singing,' that you praise so much. Perhaps Lord Arteley himself might buy it. As for touching your picture, I cannot and will not do it. If Masterman were here now

"My dear Andrea, you paint even now as well as either Masterman or I, only you are so modest. But that is best."

"Ah, my dear Master, you praise me out of pure kindness, as a mother praises her child." "The mother again," murmured Gervase, turning on his side with his old sad smile," the mother again."

whether it be good or bad it is mostly legibly written on the brow.

And so his wandering life passed on-he was amassing wealth meantime; but his high hope of excellence in his art, of fame was gone! He was a rich portrait-painter, and he did not wish to be anything else. Poor Gervase, with all his rash inconsiderateness, his grave faults, his sudden yet lasting repentance, and his high ambition, had never caught the world's eye; and his chance was well nigh gone by-he was forty; still poorer than when we first knew him, for in the pleasure freaks of the young men, Gervase was always the readiest to pay, to lend, and to forgive a debt. His reckless, untrained disposition wasted his spirits and his opportunities; at the age of forty he had all his uphill work to do. He had pursued pleasure too long.

He took an order when it was brought to him, but he did not push his way; his manners, too, were not so courteous and prepossessing as Masterman's had been; but his bonhommie was inexhaustible, although his temper had become a little discontented by his non-success. kindness to Andrea had been worthy of all praise; he had taught him well, and the youth's natural genius had led him to unconsciously outstrip his master.

His

Gervase had been for some days ill with a fever; since his funds had decreased, and Masterman had left Rome, the studio was sittingroom, sleeping-room, and all in one: thus it was that we have described him as lying on the

truckle bed close to his easel.

"I will go and offer Lord Arteley my 'Angels singing,' ," said Andrea,

As he left the room, Gervase feebly called after him-" Andrea! Andrea! Tis a small picture, but you must have thirty pounds at least for it."

This was by no means an unhappy period of Andrea's life. To be sure they were poor, and the complaints of the disappointed Gervase sometimes affected him painfully; yet on the whole, they were happy, for the young man had it all his own way, and the elder one was pleased it should be so. Andrea too had a hidden sustaining power. The simple yet earnest religion, which as a poor beggar-child had exerted over him such a strength, still, like a good angel, kept the sanctuary of his heart pure amid the varied temptations of his age and situation.

His religion mingled with his art, and sanctified all he did. “It is a blessed thing," he thought, "to be the exciter of devotion to God and love to man. Art is only truly noble when she fulfils these ends. To pander to licentiousness and folly is unworthy of her: it is as contradictory as if an angel used his voice in singing vain and sinful songs. To preserve for a loving heart the resemblance of the cherished friend or relative is indeed a grateful office; but to adorn the churches of God or the houses of the great with pictures that excite sentiments worthy of man's nature and God's creatures-this, this is far nobler. For in the church, the pictures belong alike to poor and rich; and the great in their moments of pleasure and licence need some salutary reminder that riches will not last for ever."

It is not to be doubted that much of Andrea's excellence as a painter was owing to the vivid and high conception he formed of heavenly things. The vague and fanciful melancholy in which his childish soul had gradually expanded into manhood, was also favourable to the growth of genius.

To proceed regularly: Andrea left the house, his picture under his arm, and, according to his usual habit, his eyes on the ground.

"If they should refuse to buy this picture," thought he, "what shall I do? Poor Gervase is very weak; if I can sell this, I will take him home some of the best wine in Rome; but if not I have but a few small coins left, and he does not know how poor we are. I must not let him know either. But he is so kind! Last night I thought he would have found me out; he kept saying, Andrea, where is your own supper? You have catered well for me, but what are you eating?' He would not consider that I am young, and healthy, and able to put up with hardships. Heaven forgive me for telling him I had supped before, with a friend I met accidentally. It was not right I know, but I was terribly puzzled."

And meditating thus, Andrea (who for innocence was as much a child as when he begged in the streets) entered the palazzo where Lord Arteley was living during his stay in Rome.

This rich Englishman was a generous patron of art, and a good man too; he knew nothing, however, of Gervase's history, but that he was a compatriot and in want; he instantly gave him a commission for a picture, which Gervase undertook to finish by a certain day, on which day Lord Arteley intended to ship for England

the works of art he had collected during his sojourn in Italy, while he meant to travel a little more yet, before he returned home.

Andrea blushed when he was ushered into the room where sat Lord Arteley and Lady Julia, his daughter. Andrea announced himself as a pupil of Mr. Gervase.

"Indeed! I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Signor: have you brought my picture? Mr. Gervase has been industrious indeed, for the appointed day has not yet

arrived!"

I

Poor Andrea blushed still more. "My Lord, am sorry to say Mr. Gervase is too ill to do anything at present. I fear he will scarcely complete the picture by the time you have appointed. I have taken the liberty of bringing a little attempt of my own to submit to your lordship's notice; I am anxious to sell it, for we are poor."

Andrea was very unlearned in the ways of the world; an accomplished man would have sworn that three Cardinals had offered him a large price for his picture, and that he had refused many other overtures; that it was considered a chef d'œuvre, and would be submitted next month to the Emperor of such a place, who would be in Rome about that time, and who had expressed his readiness to give a high price in return for a picture by such a gifted artist; but Andrea told the simple truth.

Lord Arteley smiled at his ignorance of men and their little deceptions. Lady Julia looked up from her tapestry frame, and said, in a voice that showed she was not accustomed to be contradicted, "it is a great pity you people of genius have no forethought, no idea of providing for the future; the money is spent as fast as it flows in, and sometimes you are half starved before good fortune sends you more."

The young painter bowed, and his eyes filled with tears, but he kept a respectful silence.

Lord Arteley continued, "Come here, Julia; this is a picture of no ordinary merit. But," added he, turning to the artist, "I have already amassed so many pictures, that I am half-puzzled where to put them when I get home."

Andrea's heart sunk within him. Lady Julia approached to look at the picture.

"I hope she will approve, because her father will buy it, if only to please her," thought Andrea, and he almost held his breath to hear her verdict.

Passable!" said she, with the air of a connoisseur. "The foreshortening is very bad there, and this shadow is quite unnatural, but there are some fine touches in it, nevertheless. Still I don't think it worth while for you, Papa, to load your self with any more paintings, if even Raphael himself could offer you one."

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"I am afraid I'must decline the honour," said Lord Arteley; Lady Julia is perfectly right, I have already too many pictures. But I

am very sorry."

"Thank you, Sir; so am I," replied Andrea. Here again he ought to have said, “Oh, my Lord! don't mention it! It is not of the least

Andrea made a very melancholy bow, and left the room with a sad heart. He thought, "What a pity it is the rich cannot enter a little more into the wants and feelings of poverty! For if Lord Arteley knew how poor we are, he would have said at least that he would pay Gervase part of the price of his picture. And now, instead of wine, I shall be able to afford only a bunch of violets, or a paper of smoking chesnuts. Patience is a great thing, only it is very hard to be patient when one has a sick friend, and no money to give him."

Andrea went down stairs, and was just leaving the house, when a gentleman, with a very blustering manner and loud voice, ran against him. He was six feet high, and stout in propertion; an Englishman no doubt, from his size, his florid complexion, and his half sporting dress. "More pictures!" cried he. My father-inlaw will furnish the house with pictures, I expect, when we get back. But where are you going to take it?"

"Home, sir," replied the artist, modestly; Lord Arteley declines to purchase."

"He is wiser than I thought him. Let me look what kind of picture it is that does not suit him, I have seen lots of the other sort." Andrea uncovered the picture, and held it in the proper light.

Not a bit. I gave three times as much for my horse there, at the door. Come up again, and I'll give you the money."

The young man bounded lightly up the stairs after his newly-found patron, and re-entered the room he had left a few minutes before.

Lady Julia was alone now. She rose when the gentleman entered, and inquired whether she should order lunch.

No, no, my dear, thank you," answered he with a hearty kiss; sit down to your stitchery;

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I have bought a picture, Julia."

"You!"

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beautiful? That is something like painting. Come forward, signor; here is the amount." Andrea came farther into the room, and having taken the money, bowed, and went down stairs without waiting for Lady Julia's remarks on the second appearance of his picture.

"How rich I am!" thought Andrea; "I will take Gervase some wine, some grapes, and some white bread. Ah, it is good to be rich!"

Andrea's face was flushed as he entered the studio; he had never sold a picture till now; and besides that cause for excitement, he was laden with delicacies for Gervase. "What

The sick man sat up in his bed. now, Andrea? Have you sold the picture?" "Yes, my dear friend, and I have brought you what you want-some good wine." He opened a flask, and gave Gervase a large cupful. "Ah, that is the medicine!" said Gervase, it does me good directly; I want nothing but strength now. Let me look at the Madonna you told me you had begun."

Andrea carried his sketch to the bedside. A deep flush passed over the face of the sick man, and he said, Andrea, you live, act, and paint your mother."

The youth smiled, and said, "Ah, Gervase, you are so discriminating; other men would ask, “And whose face is that? where did you see a woman like that? or is it a fancy sketch? But you guess at once that it is my mother; you were always so quick in discerning people's actions and motives, and you knew it was natural my first Madonna should be my mother."

Yes, I was always discerning," stammered Gervase; " of course I suspected the fact." "Of course you did," answered the pupil, innocently; "I tell you nothing escapes you."

With the approach of warmer weather, Gervaise recovered from the effects of his fever, although it was manifest to all that his strength and vigour had of late wonderfully decreased. His hand, too, was unsteady; still the spirit of the painter was true to his work, and he stood at his easel hour after hour; his eyes, worn out by fine work, seldom told him that his lines were unsteady; and the failing man wondered that his pictures did not sell.

Andrea worked hard, watched late, slept little, and ate sparingly, in order that his good friend and protector might never want bread. Already he had saved a few pounds, and he added to his little capital from time to time such sums as he was able to spare from the necessities of their frugal housekeeping.

He was busy one morning in July, putting the last touches to a copy of one of the principal pictures in the Vatican, when a lady and gentleman, who were lounging up and down, and who had not attracted his notice from his work, stopped behind him.

"Shall we go to your old studio and friend directly we leave this place?" continued the sweet voice.

Yes, Mary, directly. But I wanted to see this picture again first, and I thought it very likely Gervase would be here."

Andrea looked round. The gentleman stared at him earnestly, and said. "Those eyes are not to be mistaken; you are Andrea!"

"And you must be Mr. Masterman," said Andrea, glancing with a slight expression of surprise at the very simple and elegant dress of the young lady by his side.

"I am: I don't know how it was that Gervase and I ceased to correspond; but I have been away ten years now, and long absences are the death of friendship. Yet I long to see him again; he has been idle, has he not? I have heard nothing of him."

Alas! he had not been idle, he had worked hard, and had been unsuccessful.

"And you, too, Andrea, are an artist? Well, well!"

Mr. Masterman suddenly recollected himself, and said, "This is my wife, Andrea."

The young man bowed, and all three walked towards the old studio.

There they found Gervase painting away as if his orders fell in too fast: he did not look round when the door opened; he was so little accustomed to have visitors now he was poor, that he took it for granted it was Andrea returning home to fetch something.

"I have got it now, Andrea; come here!" said Gervase, still keeping his eyes on his work. "Don't that light fall well? My hand is very steady, and my eyes are clear to-day." Masterman rushed forwards, and the friends were in each other's arms.

Gervase wept like a child at the meeting. "I did not know where to write to you," said he; "you move about so, and you were too much occupied to write to me; but we often thought of each other, without doubt."

fun and frolic, but rather a spendthrift; and she went up to him, talked to him, and admired his painting, till Gervase got quite merry, and resumed the shadow of his former gaiety.

Masterman invited his old friend and Andrea to dinner, and at parting presented them with a ten-pound note."Just as a keepsake, Mr. Gervase," added the young wife; "he did not know what to buy, and he wishes you to lay out the money as you please."

It was kind and delicate of her to say this: Masterman would never have thought of it: he would have given the money cheerfully, as a mark of his own affluence, and for the sake of friendship as well; but he had little refinement of feeling.

You see here were two young men, who set out with equal prospects; one in the course of time grows rich, and marries well; the other loses his position, and gets poorer and poorer by degrees. A few years, and death will level them again, so far as this world goes, at any

rate!

CHAP. V.

"Oh, change! stupendous change;
There lies the soulless clod:
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God."

MRS. SOUTHEY,

Masterman stayed in Rome a week; com mended Andrea's work, and-rare tribute of regard from one artist to another-bought a picture of him.

After his departure. Gervase's spirits sank more than ever; sometimes he would eat nothing from morning till night but a mouthful of black bread, saying that he earned nothing, and ought not to rob Andrea.

"Rob me, Gervase! Who sheltered me, nurtured me, taught me, kept me from loose society? God sees my heart; all I have is dearer, because you share it. You are my only friend."

art!

The gentle young wife seemed to perceive at once how matters stood with Gervase. She had heard her husband describe Gervase as a handsome, smart young fellow, always ready for

Then Gervase would shed tears, and beg the young man's pardon for offending him.

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By such tokens of weakness, Andrea saw very clearly that his master's mind was failing him, for want of company," the young man thought, because," said he to himself, although I do my best, I am a very dull companion; I know it; and he is so used to me, that I am no company for him; he might as well be alone."

After a night of such meditations, he would redouble his activity in waiting on his friend, who really had no complaint to make regarding Andrea.

Andrea named this trouble about "the master." to a young woman who lived near, and whose mother permitted her now and then to go into Gervase's studio, and perform such little domestic

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Maddalena," said Andrea, "I wish you would now and then come in and talk to the master, his spirits fail him so when I am out." Maddalena was a lively, good-tempered girl, and she said, "Thank you for your courtesy; one must be careful of going where such handsome young men as you are to be found; the neighbours would say I came to see you."

Andrea smiled and said, "Be serious, now, Maddalena: you are a good girl, and my poor friend appears to me to be sinking fast. If I were rich, I would take him to his home-to England; that might recover him. But I am poor; and it is quite right, I know. God has taught us to pray for our daily bread; and there are few indeed who die for want of that. One must be contented, and take His way, not one's own."

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"Put your face to mine, Andrea, so, my dear, dear son; my friend, comforter, guide, supporter, all, all in one. I humbly trust we shall meet in heaven. Forgive me, Andrea, the wrong I did your mother!"

Worn out by the exertion, Gervase's head fell helplessly on the breast of Andrea, whose kisses fell fast upon his face.

"I could not have loved you more, had I known it before," said Andrea. "Come, my dear father, take heart, I doubt not God has long ago forgiven you that fault; and if not, you can ask him to do so now."

"It is enough," murmured Gervase, and his last breath entered the lips of his son.

Year after year Andrea worked on alone. The studio looked sadly solitary without Gervase; but the young man worked hopefully and faithfully. Perhaps he might have married Maddalena, who had been so kind to his father, but she very soon became betrothed to some one else; therefore Andrea remained single. He achieved fame in good time, and died at the early age of thirty-eight, beloved and respected

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When you are at home," said she, laughing. Notwithstanding her playfulness, Maddalena had a warm and sympathetic heart; and although she made no promise, she often came in and read for hours together to Gervase.

His health seemed gradually to decline during all that summer; by degrees he discontinued his painting; and all within him seemed tending to dissolution.

There was one thing that much distressed Andrea, Gervase was evidently uncomfortable about something.

"Do not trouble about me," he would say, "I deserve nought but ill of you; attend to yourself, my beloved Andrea."

"But you have always been so kind to me; why do you talk so?" Andrea would reply, and came to the conclusion that his mind wandered from weakness, brought on by anxiety." It is strange," thought Andrea, "that his mind should take the very opposite turn to truth. Even when I was a poor errand-boy, he let me sleep in his own chamber; it is very strange indeed."

One autumn night both Maddalena and Andrea stood by his bed together, with Maddalena's mother, and several other neighbours. Andrea was in an agony of grief; his best friend, his only protector, was too ill to live much longer. Andrea flung himself on his knees by the bedside, and kissed passionately the hand of the dying man. Gervase gathered up his strength, and said, "Let all but Andrea leave the room."

The neighbours seemed rather offended. It was rude to send them away so unceremo

His last picture was a Holy Family. The figures were portraits of his mother, Gervase, and himself. This picture he presented to the church where Masterman first met him.