of the gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I ventured
to ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was
still there.

'Oh, yes! come in,' said she (for I had met them in the garden).
'It is finished and framed, all ready for sending away; but give me
your last opinion, and if you can suggest any further improvement,
it shall be - duly considered, at least.'

The picture was strikingly beautiful; it was the very scene itself,
transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed my
approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of
displeasing her. She, however, attentively watched my looks, and
her artist's pride was gratified, no doubt, to read my heartfelt
admiration in my eyes. But, while I gazed, I thought upon the
book, and wondered how it was to be presented. My heart failed me;
but I determined not to be such a fool as to come away without
having made the attempt. It was useless waiting for an
opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for the
occasion. The more plainly and naturally the thing was done, the
better, I thought; so I just looked out of the window to screw up
my courage, and then pulled out the book, turned round, and put it
into her hand, with this short explanation:

'You were wishing to see 'Marmion,' Mrs. Graham; and here it is, if
you will be so kind as to take it.'

A momentary blush suffused her face - perhaps, a blush of
sympathetic shame for such an awkward style of presentation: she
gravely examined the volume on both sides; then silently turned