remains to be seen.

"What a hang-dog look that Carlton has," said one artist to another.

"But he's a master with the brush, and bids fair to distance some of
us," was the reply.

"For my part, I hate all Americans."

"Or rather all successful rivals," suggested the other,
sarcastically.

"Rival or not, this Carlton is a bore."

"So far I agree with you," answered the other.

"He's the poorest dressed artist in Florence."

"There you are right again."

And thus they sneered at him.

Under all these disadvantages, Carlton was by no means discouraged.
He was sustained by his ambition and love of his noble art, and,
above all, by the love he bore Florinda. He hoped, through the means
of the picture he was engaged upon, to introduce himself to the good
will of the duke; and this accomplished, one important step would be
taken towards the goal his fancy had pictured in futurity.

As we have said, Carlton left the academy through necessity, but he