Green field and woodland wild,
Shall bear, with voices mild,
Sweet messages to thee.
THE PRIZE PAINTING.
I.
It was a small attic chamber in an obscure part of London. The light that entered at the open window revealed two figures,—Arthur Elliott and his young wife.
“Dear Arthur,” said the latter, as she brushed back the heavy chestnut locks from his pale brow, “you must not—indeed you must not—labor so incessantly. You will injure your health,—perhaps ruin it entirely,—and then what will be left to me?”
“Mary,” said the young painter, caressingly, “you are alarming yourself to no purpose. I am not weary. Besides, what were a little weariness in comparison with the great purpose I have in view? You know the exhibition will open in a fortnight; and my picture is still unfinished. Oh!” continued he, with enthusiasm, while a faint flush overspread his pale cheek, “if it could be my fortune to gain the great prize of five hundred pounds which has been offered for the best painting on exhibition, I believe I could die content!”