Anna started for her home, and when she had arrived, she slowly ascended to her room, flung herself upon her couch, and buried her face among its cushions.

“Edgar,” (for that was the artist’s name, and Anna knew him,) “Edgar is cold hearted.” She did not meet the family at tea that evening, but when her mother came to inquire if she was ill, she related all the sad story of the childless mother, and asked what could be done. The next morning, Anna and her father went to see the artist. He was not in attendance, but one to whom they were well known brought forward the picture, at Anna’s request, and which she had before seen. While they were looking at it, the artist came in.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Anna’s father, “for examining your beautiful picture during your absence, but my daughter has a very earnest desire to possess it. Is it for sale?”

Edgar replied, “I have painted this picture for the coming artist’s exhibition, and, therefore, I have made no design as to its disposal, but it would be an honor to me to have you and Miss Anna its purchasers. I would wish, however, previously to its being given up, that it might be exhibited, according to my intention, at the rooms, which open on Monday next.”

Mr. H. hesitated: the vessel, which was to carry away the sorrowing mother, was to sail in a little more than two weeks: they must have the picture at that time, if ever; and he said to the artist, “I am aware that this is a beautiful painting, and I will pay you your price, but I must be allowed to take it at the expiration often days, if at all.”

Edgar reflected a few moments, and being well aware that, in the mansion of Mr. Hastings, his elegant picture would be seen by persons of the most accomplished manners, and of excellent taste, concluded to sell the picture. The bargain was made and Anna and her father departed, leaving the artist somewhat elated at the thought of having Mr. H. the owner of his picture.

That night Edgar dreamed that Flora, who had been buried a few weeks, and of whose image his picture was the exact resemblance, stood before him, pleading him to have pity on her lonely mother: he dreamed her hand clasped his, and he awoke trembling.

He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would soon be between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him about the picture.

The Monday morning came and with it the portrait of Flora, which had been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvass.

The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the passengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by a pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna alighted, and were followed by a servant, who took the safely cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board the ship. They soon met the mother of Flora, and Anna took the picture and presented it to her, and promised to care for the rose buds which bloomed at Flora’s grave. Mr. H. received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian widow, and her aged father, and to care for the valued picture of Flora. Thanks and farewells closed the scene, when Anna, with her father, returned home. There she found a note from Edgar, the artist, requesting permission to call on Anna that evening. She wrote a reply, saying that a previous engagement would forbid her complying with his request, at the same time enclosing a check for $200, saying, “My father requests me to forward this check to you in payment for the portrait of Flora Revere.”