was already very cold,—­cold enough to have depopulated the gallery of its usual crowd of copying artists.  At some distance from the young girl’s easel, sitting in a corner lighted up by a stray ray of sunshine, there was an old woman busily knitting,—­probably the girl’s mother, or protectress.  And besides those two, and the Englishman, and a lounging attendant wrapped in his cloak, there was no other soul in the gallery.

Yet the young student busily plied her task; nor was she surprised into looking up by the stopping of the stranger behind her chair.  He did not see her face, therefore; and it would be consequently unfair to imagine that any portion of the interest he could not help feeling in her was to be attributed to the ordinary charm of a pretty face, whereas it was really due partly to the artistic merit of her copy, partly to her bravery in sticking to her work despite the severity of the season, and partly to her youth and very apparent poverty.

Suddenly, as he watched the progress of her work slowly growing beneath the rapid movements of her slender, blue-cold fingers, the idea came into his mind that here might be a favourable opportunity of obtaining what he had much wished to procure when he had been at Ravenna,—­some drawings of several of the most remarkable of the Mosaics in the churches of San Vitale and St. Apollinare in Classe.  He was quite satisfied from what he saw that the young artist was competent to execute the drawings he required.  The conscientious determination, which alone could have made her continue her work under such circumstances, was a guarantee to him that she would do her best.  It was not probable that the expectations of the girl before him as to remuneration would go beyond such sum as he was willing to pay.  And lastly—­though truly not least in that Englishman’s mind—­it might be that such a proposal would be a very acceptable boon to a poor and meritorious artist.  So managing to speak to the attendant, when he was at a far part of the gallery, he learned from him that the girl’s name was Paolina Foscarelli; that the old woman was, the officer believed, her aunt; that her name was Orsola Steno; and that they lived together at No. 8 in the Campo San Donato.

That same evening the stranger desired his servitore di piazza to make inquiries about Signora Orsola Steno, and her niece, who copied in the gallery; and the next morning he was told that, if he would call upon the Director of the Gallery, that gentleman would be happy to reply to any inquiries about the Signorina Paolina Foscarelli.

The Englishman waited on the Director forthwith, and from him learned that such a commission as he had thought of giving to the young copyist could not be better bestowed in any point of view.  The Director spoke highly of her artistic capabilities, and more highly still of her character and worth.  She had been left an orphan, wholly unprovided for, several years ago.  Her father had gained his living by