my God for bestowing upon me!  And so I have lived, as you find me,—­’the unknown artist.’  It is needless to add, the beautiful Madonna, which was never designed for the rude gaze of public curiosity, is the likeness of my child; and though I had no other than the impress of her features upon my heart, to guide my trembling hand, yet I have got a soul upon that canvas!  Sometimes I have fancied that some good angel had not forgotten me, and had breathed her soul into those pure eyes!”

“And the child?” asked Natalie, in a suppressed breath, scarcely above a whisper.

“Her child was but a tiny babe; her features were not sufficiently developed to leave its memory on my mind; yet they told me the little creature was like her mother.  This, the Madonna’s child, is from life.  In my wanderings I visited the island of Nantucket.  I spent some little time there, as I found the great hearts of those people more congenial to my weary spirits, than the chilling air of avarice, which, in a measure, marks this western world.  One morning, as I strolled along the shore, looking out upon the sea, depressed in spirits, I observed a pretty sight not far from me; an old negro sat upon the beach, and by his side an infant, some eighteen months old, with her arms clasped about the neck of a large Newfoundland dog, while her eyes, which were of the blue of heaven, were fixed upon the waves which rolled and broke in harmless ripples at her feet.  She was a beauteous child.  I have never seen another upon whom I could look, as the little angel that had gone.  I traced her beautiful features, as I was so fortunate as to have pencil and paper by me, and was about to pass on, when I observed the brother of the child approaching; he was a noble little fellow, with the air of a young prince, and I never shall forget his proud answer, when I asked him of his sister,—­’We call her Sea-flower, sir, for she came to us from God, and he smiles upon each little flower, as it lifts up its head, all trembling with dew.’  I breathed a blessing upon them both, for they had drawn a tear from my heart of stone.”

“Sir,” said Natalie, as he paused, “Nantucket is my home; often have I listened to my dear brother, as he has told me the pretty story of the sad gentleman whom he met, when I was but an infant, and how he spoke to me so tenderly, and sighed for his own Natalie.  I had no other name then but Sea-flower, and I have been called by that name ever since; yet after that day, my Christian name was Natalie.”

The artist gazed upon her, and pointing to the Madonna, exclaimed,—­“Thou art the child! you are like the Madonna!  Can it be that I have unconsciously restored to the mother her child?  None other than her own could thus resemble her!”

“In my innermost heart there has ever dwelt a mystery, which I can find no language to describe!  In my dreams I have had sweet visions of a beauteous being, who has smiled upon me, and made me happy.  The Madonna awakens all those pure feelings, and I cannot but look upon her as in some way connected with my being; yet my own mother lives, and my affection for her is as for no other being upon the earth.”