It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length tothe urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit toWildfell Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a room wherethe first object that met the eye was a painter's easel, with atable beside it covered with rolls of canvas, bottles of oil andvarnish, palette, brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against the wallwere several sketches in various stages of progression, and a fewfinished paintings - mostly of landscapes and figures.

'I must make you welcome to my studio,' said Mrs. Graham; 'there isno fire in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold toshow you into a place with an empty grate.'

And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber thatusurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place besidethe easel - not facing it exactly, but now and then glancing at thepicture upon it while she conversed, and giving it an occasionaltouch with her brush, as if she found it impossible to wean herattention entirely from her occupation to fix it upon her guests.It was a view of Wildfell Hall, as seen at early morning from thefield below, rising in dark relief against a sky of clear silveryblue, with a few red streaks on the horizon, faithfully drawn andcoloured, and very elegantly and artistically handled.

'I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,' observed I: 'Imust beg you to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence tointerrupt you, we shall be constrained to regard ourselves asunwelcome intruders.'

'Oh, no!' replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as ifstartled into politeness. 'I am not so beset with visitors butthat I can readily spare a few minutes to the few that do favour mewith their company.'

'You have almost completed your painting,' said I, approaching toobserve it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree ofadmiration and delight than I cared to express. 'A few moretouches in the foreground will finish it, I should think. But whyhave you called it Fernley Manor, Cumberland, instead of WildfellHall, -shire?' I asked, alluding to the name she had traced insmall characters at the bottom of the canvas.

But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act ofimpertinence in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but aftera moment's pause, with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied:-

'Because I have friends - acquaintances at least - in the world,from whom I desire my present abode to be concealed; and as theymight see the picture, and might possibly recognise the style inspite of the false initials I have put in the corner, I take theprecaution to give a false name to the place also, in order to putthem on a wrong scent, if they should attempt to trace me out byit.'

'Then you don't intend to keep the picture?' said I, anxious to sayanything to change the subject.

'No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.'

'Mamma sends all her pictures to London,' said Arthur; 'andsomebody sells them for her there, and sends us the money.'

In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty sketchof Linden-hope from the top of the hill; another view of the oldhall basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer afternoon; and asimple but striking little picture of a child brooding, with looksof silent but deep and sorrowful regret, over a handful of witheredflowers, with glimpses of dark low hills and autumnal fields behindit, and a dull beclouded sky above.

'You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,' observed the fairartist. 'I took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and Isuppose I must take it again on a snowy winter's day, and thenagain on a dark cloudy evening; for I really have nothing else topaint. I have been told that you have a fine view of the seasomewhere in the neighbourhood. Is it true? - and is it withinwalking distance?'

'Yes, if you don't object to walking four miles - or nearly so -little short of eight miles, there and back - and over a somewhatrough, fatiguing road.'

'In what direction does it lie?'

I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering uponan explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to betraversed in order to reach it, the goings straight on, andturnings to the right and the left, when she checked me with, -

'Oh, stop! don't tell me now: I shall forget every word of yourdirections before I require them. I shall not think about goingtill next spring; and then, perhaps, I may trouble you. At presentwe have the winter before us, and - '

She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up fromher seat, and saying, 'Excuse me one moment,' hurried from theroom, and shut the door behind her.

Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards thewindow - for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the momentbefore - and just beheld the skirts of a man's coat vanishingbehind a large holly-bush that stood between the window and theporch.

'It's mamma's friend,' said Arthur.

Rose and I looked at each other.

'I don't know what to make of her at all,' whispered Rose.

The child looked at her in grave surprise. She straightway beganto talk to him on indifferent matters, while I amused myself withlooking at the pictures. There was one in an obscure corner that Ihad not before observed. It was a little child, seated on thegrass with its lap full of flowers. The tiny features and largeblue eyes, smiling through a shock of light brown curls, shakenover the forehead as it bent above its treasure, bore sufficientresemblance to those of the young gentleman before me to proclaimit a portrait of Arthur Graham in his early infancy.

In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered anotherbehind it, with its face to the wall. I ventured to take that uptoo. It was the portrait of a gentleman in the full prime ofyouthful manhood - handsome enough, and not badly executed; but ifdone by the same hand as the others, it was evidently some yearsbefore; for there was far more careful minuteness of detail, andless of that freshness of colouring and freedom of handling thatdelighted and surprised me in them. Nevertheless, I surveyed itwith considerable interest. There was a certain individuality inthe features and expression that stamped it, at once, a successfullikeness. The bright blue eyes regarded the spectator with a kindof lurking drollery - you almost expected to see them wink; thelips - a little too voluptuously full - seemed ready to break intoa smile; the warmly-tinted cheeks were embellished with a luxuriantgrowth of reddish whiskers; while the bright chestnut hair,clustering in abundant, wavy curls, trespassed too much upon theforehead, and seemed to intimate that the owner thereof was prouderof his beauty than his intellect - as, perhaps, he had reason tobe; and yet he looked no fool.

I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the fairartist returned.

'Only some one come about the pictures,' said she, in apology forher abrupt departure: 'I told him to wait.'

'I fear it will be considered an act of impertinence,' said 'topresume to look at a picture that the artist has turned to thewall; but may I ask -'

'It is an act of very great impertinence, sir; and therefore I begyou will ask nothing about it, for your curiosity will not begratified,' replied she, attempting to cover the tartness of herrebuke with a smile; but I could see, by her flushed cheek andkindling eye, that she was seriously annoyed.

'I was only going to ask if you had painted it yourself,' said I,sulkily resigning the picture into her hands; for without a grainof ceremony she took it from me; and quickly restoring it to thedark corner, with its face to the wall, placed the other against itas before, and then turned to me and laughed.

But I was in no humour for jesting. I carelessly turned to thewindow, and stood looking out upon the desolate garden, leaving herto talk to Rose for a minute or two; and then, telling my sister itwas time to go, shook hands with the little gentleman, coolly bowedto the lady, and moved towards the door. But, having bid adieu toRose, Mrs. Graham presented her hand to me, saying, with a softvoice, and by no means a disagreeable smile, - 'Let not the sun godown upon your wrath, Mr. Markham. I'm sorry I offended you by myabruptness.'

When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping one'sanger, of course; so we parted good friends for once; and this timeI squeezed her hand with a cordial, not a spiteful pressure.