“No, Florinda,” ho said, “I cannot accept the purse, or any assistance from thee, noble lady.  But if you will bear with my humble attire for a while, I hope to be able to dress in a style to suit thy taste, and which will render me worthy, at least in point of personal appearance, to walk by thy side.”

“Do you forgive me, Carlton, for this?  It was but the impulse of the moment.  I did not mean to insult thee.”

“Insult me!”

“Alas!  I was but rude.”

“Nay, dearest.”

“You forgive me?”

“Florinda, I appreciate the feeling that prompted the generous act.  Forgive thee?  Yes, dearest, and love thee more for it.”

He pressed her hand to his lips, and they parted-Florinda to the regal palace of the duke, and Carlton to his humble lodgings.  That night he went to his bed without having tasted food throughout the whole day.  The next morning with the first light he rose, unable to sleep from hunger, and sought his canvass.  While he could summon his pride, and season it with his ambition, this formed food and stimulus enough for him-a sustaining principle equal to natural nutriment.  But in his sleep, when nature asserted her power, and the physical system claimed precedence over the brain, then the gnawings of hunger could not be stilled; and thus he awoke, and, as we have said, sought his canvass to drive away the demon; for it was a demon-a tormenting fiend to him now!

Among the collection of artists at Florence-as in all Italian cities-there were representatives from nearly every part of the world; and much rivalry and pride often showed itself, not only among the students of the academy, but even among the masters or teachers themselves.  This feeling at the time to which we allude, prevailed to an unusual extent, and its pernicious effects had been the cause of one or two duels of fatal termination.  Carlton had long since been obliged to leave the academy from want of means, and even while there, he labored under great disadvantage in not being able to keep up the appearance of a gentleman among his fellow-students, who were generally well supplied with pecuniary means.

His comrades finding that he far exceeded them in point of application, and consequently in execution and general improvement, naturally disliked him; and strange enough, too, the teachers treated him with marked coolness and dislike, whether from a similar sense of his superior ability even over themselves, or otherwise, 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.”