the shabbily dressed, painfully plain women, who make up the throng of
copyists. The old custodes knew her well, and watched over her as their
own child. Sometimes a young artist, instead of going on with a copy
of the picture before which he had placed his easel, would enrich
his canvas with an original portrait of Hilda at her work. A lovelier
subject could not have been selected, nor one which required nicer skill
and insight in doing it anything like justice. She was pretty at all
times, in our native New England style, with her light-brown ringlets,
her delicately tinged, but healthful cheek, her sensitive, intelligent,
yet most feminine and kindly face. But, every few moments, this pretty
and girlish face grew beautiful and striking, as some inward thought and
feeling brightened, rose to the surface, and then, as it were, passed
out of sight again; so that, taking into view this constantly recurring
change, it really seemed as if Hilda were only visible by the sunshine
of her soul.

In other respects, she was a good subject for a portrait, being
distinguished by a gentle picturesqueness, which was perhaps
unconsciously bestowed by some minute peculiarity of dress, such as
artists seldom fail to assume. The effect was to make her appear like an
inhabitant of pictureland, a partly ideal creature, not to be handled,
nor even approached too closely. In her feminine self, Hilda was
natural, and of pleasant deportment, endowed with a mild cheerfulness of
temper, not overflowing with animal spirits, but never long despondent.
There was a certain simplicity that made every one her friend, but it
was combined with a subtile attribute of reserve, that insensibly kept
those at a distance who were not suited to her sphere.

Miriam was the dearest friend whom she had ever known. Being a year or
two the elder, of longer acquaintance with Italy, and better fitted to