"Does tradition say that he angled in that stream? I thought his haunts were rather on the other side of London."
"Possibly; I am not learned in Walton or in his art, but there is an old summer-house, on the other side of the lock yonder, on which is carved the name of Izaak Walton, but whether by his own hand or another's who shall say? Has Mr. Melville been here lately, Mrs. Cameron?"
"No, not for several months."
"He has had a glorious success this year. We may hope that at last his genius is acknowledged by the world. I meant to buy his picture, but I was not in time: a Manchester man was before me."
"Who is Mr. Melville? any relation to you?" whispered Kenelm to Lily.
"Relation,—I scarcely know. Yes, I suppose so, because he is my guardian. But if he were the nearest relation on earth, I could not love him more," said Lily, with impulsive eagerness, her cheeks flushing, her eyes filling with tears.
"And he is an artist,—a painter?" asked Kenelm.
"Oh, yes; no one paints such beautiful pictures,—no one so clever, no one so kind."
Kenelm strove to recollect if he had ever heard the name of Melville as a painter, but in vain. Kenelm, however, knew but little of painters: they were not in his way; and he owned to himself, very humbly, that there might be many a living painter of eminent renown whose name and works would be strange to him.
He glanced round the wall; Lily interpreted his look. "There are no pictures of his here," said she; "there is one in my own room. I will show it you when you come again."