"Yes; I shall be better satisfied there. All my life it has gleamed afar off, a glorious land of promise to my eager, longing spirit. From childhood I have cherished the hope of reaching it, and the fruition is near at hand. Italy! bright Alma Mater of the art to which I consecrate my years. Do you wonder that, like a lonely child, I stretch, out my arms toward it? Yet my stay there will be but for a season. I go to complete my studies, to make myself a more perfect instrument for my noble work, and then I shall come home—come, not to New York, but to my own dear native South, to W——, that I may labour under the shadow of its lofty pines, and within hearing of its murmuring river—dearer to me than classic Arno, or immortal Tiber. I wrote you that Mr. Clifton had left me a legacy, which, judiciously invested, will defray my expenses in Europe, where living is cheaper than in this country. Mr. Young has taken charge of the money for me, and has kindly offered to attend to my remittances. Aunt Ruth's friends, the Richardsons, consented to wait for me until after the opening of the Exhibition of the Academy of Design, and one week from to-morrow we expect to sail."
"What do you know of the family?"
"Nothing, except that the lady, who is an old friend of my aunt, is threatened with consumption, and has been advised to spend a year or two in Florence. Aunt Ruth took me to see her the other day; she seems intelligent and agreeable, and I daresay I shall find her kind and pleasant enough."
"Since such is the programme you have marked out, I trust that no disappointments await you, and that all your bright dreams may be realized. But if it should prove otherwise, and you grow weary of your art, sick of isolation, and satiated with Italy, remember that I shall welcome you home and gladly share with you all that I possess. You are embarking in an experiment which thousands have tried before you, and wrecked happiness upon; but I have no right to control your future, and certainly no desire to discourage you. At all events, I hope our separation will be brief."
A short silence followed, broken at last by Electra, who watched him keenly as she spoke—
"Tell me something about Irene. Of course, in a small town like W——, you must see her frequently."
"By no means. I think I have seen her but three times since her childhood—once riding with her father, then accidentally at church, and again a few evenings before I left, at the graveyard, where she was dressing a tombstone with flowers. There we exchanged a few words for the first time, and this reminds me that I am bearer of a message yet undelivered. She inquired after you, and desired me to tender you her love and best wishes."
"I have her here in crayons; tell me what you think of the likeness."
She took down a portfolio and selected the head of her quondam playmate, holding it under the gaslight, and still scrutinizing her cousin's countenance. He took it, and looked gravely, earnestly, at the lovely features.
"It scarcely does her justice; I doubt whether any portrait ever will. Beside, the expression of her face has changed materially since this was sketched. There is a harder outline now about her mouth, less of dreaminess in the eyes, more of cold hauteur in the whole face. If you desire it, I can in one line of Tennyson photograph her proud beauty, as I saw her mounted on her favourite horse, the week that I left home—