MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.
An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway. He stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work. It was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling. An exquisite face—rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own—the radiant face of Mollie Dane.
The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor. All day the dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight, ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.
The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold that transfigured the whole firmament.
A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.
"It is Mollie—living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to himself in sudden exultation—"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit by a king's side and wear his crown. Come in!"
For a tap at the studio door suddenly brought our enthusiastic artist back to earth. He flung a cloth over the sketch, and leaned gracefully against the easel.
The figure that entered somewhat disturbed the young man's constitutional phlegm—it was so unlike his usual run of visitors—a remarkable figure, tall, gaunt, and bony, clad in wretched garb; a haggard, powerful face, weather-beaten and brown, and two blazing black eyes.
The artist opened his own handsome orbs to their widest extent.
"I wish to see Mr. Hugh Ingelow," said this singular woman in a deep bass voice.