“Will you not return to him and communicate it?” asked Sir Francis.
A hackney coach was called, and Mrs. Elliott soon arrived at her lodgings.
“Oh, Arthur!” said she. “The prize! the prize!” It was all that she could utter.
“Who has got it?” asked the sick man, eagerly, as he rose in his bed.
“It is yours! They have awarded it to you!”
A proud flush passed over the faint cheek of the artist. “I am satisfied,—I am happy,” said he.
The joy occasioned by his success operated most beneficially on the sunken energies of the artist. Before many weeks, he recovered fully, so as to resume his art. His prize painting was sold for a great sum to an English nobleman, who was bent on adding it to his collection.
At present, there is a beautiful cottage situated a few miles out of London, in the suburbs. There is a pleasant garden connected with it, and it seems the abode of peace and happiness. This is the residence of the eminent artist, Arthur Elliott, and his happy wife. There are few households to whom it has fallen to enjoy such unalloyed happiness as theirs. They have not forgotten the author of their prosperity. In the library of Sir Francis Sedley there hangs a beautiful picture,—a perfect gem of art,—on the back of which is traced, in delicate characters,—