“I am obliged to you for the hint.  I have two or three pictures nearly done.”

“I will look at them in a day or two, and try to find you purchasers.”

Greenleaf expressed his thanks, warmly, and then walked towards Mrs. Sandford, who was sitting alone at that moment.

“There is no knowing what Marcia may do,” thought Sandford; “I have never seen her when she appeared so much in earnest,—­infatuated like a candle-fly.  I hope she won’t be fool enough to marry a man without money.  These artists are poor sheep; they have to be taken care of like so many children.  At all events, it won’t cost much to keep him at work for the present.  Meanwhile she may change her mind.”

Greenleaf was soon engaged in conversation with Mrs. Sandford.  She had too much delicacy to flatter him upon his singing, but naturally turned the current towards his art.  Without depreciating his efforts or the example of deservedly eminent American painters, she spoke with more emphasis of the acknowledged masters; and as she dwelt with unaffected enthusiasm upon the delight she had received from their immortal works, his old desire to visit Europe came upon him with redoubled force.  There was a calm strength in her thoughts and manner that moved him strangely.  He saw in a new light his thoughtless devotion to pleasure, and especially the foolish fascination into which he had been led by a woman whom he could not marry and ought not to love.  Mrs. Sandford did not exhort, nor even advise; least of all did she allude to her sister-in-law.  Hers was only the influence of truth,—­of broad ideas of life and its noblest ends, presented with simplicity and a womanly tact above all art.  It seemed to Greenleaf the voice of an angel that he heard, so promptly did his conscience respond.  He listened with heightening color and tense nerves; the delirious languor of amatory music, and the delirium he had felt while under the spell of Marcia’s beauty, passed away.  It seemed to him that he was lifted into a higher plane, whence he saw before him the straight path of duty, leading away from the tempting gardens of pleasure,—­where he recognized immutable principles, and became conscious that his true affinities were not with those who came in contact only with his sensuous nature.  He had never understood himself until now.

A long meditation, the reader thinks; but, in reality, it was only an electric current, awakening a series of related thoughts; as a flash of lightning at night illumines at once a crowd of objects in a landscape, which the mind perceives, but cannot follow in detail.

When, at length, Greenleaf looked up, he was astonished to find the room silent, and himself with his companion in the focus of all eyes.  Marcia looked on with a curiosity in which there was perhaps a shade of apprehension.  Easelmann relieved the momentary embarrassment by walking towards his friend, with a meaning glance, and taking a seat near Mrs. Sandford.