_Letter from Mr. Oldstone to Mr. Vandyke McGuilp._

  "MY DEAR BOY,

  "I cannot express to you the joy and pride I felt in perusing your
  last letter, and I hasten to offer you my best congratulations, and I
  think I may add those of the rest of our members, on having achieved
  what I must needs call such unprecedented success. I read your letter,
  together with the critique from the _Athenæum_ enclosed, aloud, before
  the whole club, our worthy host and his family being also present. You
  should have seen the blush that suffused our dear Helen's cheek at the
  mention of the success of her portrait. It was as if she had said,
  'Lo, he has become great, and all through _me_. _My_ face it was that
  inspired him to achieve such fame. _My_ prayers and good wishes that
  buoyed him up with energy to thus distinguish himself!' Some such
  thoughts must have passed through her mind, if I am any reader of
  faces--and I think I am. "One of the younger members seemed disposed to offer some banter, but
  I frowned him down. I never will sanction any unseemly levity towards
  that girl, or allow her to be treated as if she were a mere hackneyed
  barmaid, used to the coarse jokes of any Tom, Dick or Harry. To me she
  is something very precious, and I love her as my own child. Poor
  little one! She always comes to me for sympathy in her troubles. Not
  even to her own parents will she confide everything--much less to the
  other members. If you were to see the change that has come over her of
  late! She has lost all that raw awkwardness so common to growing
  girls, and has now developed into mature womanhood. "Since your departure, young man, I could not but pity the poor child
  with her sunken cheek, her downcast eyes, and listless manner. I knew
  she had a secret that weighed upon her, and I guessed what it was. I
  came forward to offer her my friendship and advice, and encouraged her
  to open her heart to me. The poor child's gratitude was so touching! There _must_ be an outburst when the heart is full, and she could
  confide in no one else. "Ever since she found she had a true friend to lean on, I have noticed
  a marked change in the girl. The rose returned to her cheek, the light
  to her eye, an expression came into her face that I never observed
  before--nay, a variety of expressions which seem to chase each other
  with marvellous rapidity over a countenance lovely, intelligent, and
  pure. "Dr. Bleedem, poor man! seeing her looking mopish, prescribed her a
  course of steel medicine. She declares that he only gave her one dose,
  which he made her take in his presence. The rest of the medicine he
  left her to take by herself. Now the girl insists positively that, not
  liking the medicine, she threw it all away. "Dr. Bleedem, of course, is under the impression that she took it all,
  and naturally attributes her sudden change of health for the better to
  his drugs. I am of opinion that it was medicine of another sort that
  brought back the roses to her cheek. She is now eighteen, and by our
  peasantry would be considered of a marriageable age; but oh! I _do_
  begrudge her to any of these country bumpkins, who come in for their
  mug of ale and their chaff. There is no one for miles round anything
  like good enough for her. Of one thing, however, I feel quite certain,
  and that is, that she would never allow herself to be coaxed, cajoled,
  or threatened into marrying any man whom she did not love, however
  advantageous the match might appear in the eyes of the world. No, the
  girl has character, and would never give her hand where she had not
  set her affections. She would far sooner not marry at all. Whoever
  should win her affections will be a lucky man, for he will get a
  treasure in such a wife. "Excuse the wanderings of an old dotard, my friend, but when I once
  get upon this topic, I am inexhaustible; and as for local news, there
  simply is none. When last I spoke to Helen about writing to you, she
  desired me to send her duty to you. Pretty soul! _duty_ indeed. Now,
  my dear boy, I must really draw this epistle to a close. Trusting that
  you are enjoying the best of health and spirits, and wishing you
  continued and ever increasing success in your art. "I remain,
                           "Your doting but affectionate old friend,
                                             "OBADIAH OLDSTONE." We have said that Mr. Oldstone was prompt in answering the letters of
his protégé. Neither was our artist, as a rule, tardy in answering those
of his aged friend. Seldom more than a month passed between a letter and
its answer, on either side. Yet to this letter no reply came. Month
followed month, and no tidings arrived of our artist. Such delay was
most unusual, and Mr. Oldstone now began to be seriously alarmed. What
had happened to the boy? Was he ill? He knew by experience that the
summer months in Rome were extremely unhealthy, on account of the
malaria. Was he laid up with Roman fever? Had he met with an accident? Or was there anything in the tone of his letter that had given offence? He tried to recollect. No, he thought not; in fact, he did not know what
to think. The gloomiest fancies rushed across his mind as he paced the
breakfast room alone. Presently his eye caught the portrait of Helen, that McGuilp had
presented to the club, and which he, Oldstone, had with his own hands
hung up over the mantel. "Ah! my pretty puss," said he, addressing the
painted canvas smiling down at him, "I dare not infect you with my
fears. I don't want to make _you_ unhappy." Just then the door gaped ajar, and the original of the portrait appeared
at the opening. As the antiquary had not yet noticed her, his eyes being
still fixed on the portrait, Helen stepped into the room and closed the
door behind her. Then, walking straight up to Oldstone, she said,
"Please sir, has anything happened?" "Happened, my dear! What should happen in this dead-and-alive place? Nothing ever happens here." "Ah! sir," rejoined Helen, "you but evade my question. You know what I
would ask." "My dear, how should I?" demanded her friend and counsellor, with most
provoking _sang froid_. A gesture of impatience escaped the girl. Then fixing her eyes steadily
on those of the antiquary, as if to read his inmost soul, she said with
some approach to severity in her tone, "Mr. Oldstone, you are keeping
something from me. Something has happened to Mr. McGuilp, and you won't
tell me what it is." "On my honour, my sweet child," replied her friend, "I know no more than
you do yourself. I wish I did. Here have I been waiting now about six
months for a reply to my letter, when he used often to write by return
of post. I can't make head or tail of it." "Then something _is_ wrong, you may depend upon it," cried the girl. "Oh, dear! oh, dear! Surely he is laid up with some dreadful
illness--away from me, and in a strange country, with no one to attend
upon him. Oh, merciful Heaven!