“Has no influence with me,” she quietly rejoined. “I had it once—it went, wrenching from me at the same moment my darling son; and as it has only cursed me in the past, I care not though I never again feel its influence.”

What answer could there be to such a speech? The young student—the gentleman who had never from his infancy had his slightest wish crossed—might well turn away with a flush of disappointment on his cheeks, and bite his lip in silence. But now every fresh objection only made him more eager to attain his object, and after a pause he pleadingly said:

“Then, Mrs. Lyons, you might allow me to take a sketch of it here, in your presence?”

“Not for such a purpose. Laddie, I’m sorry that I ever yielded so far as to let you see it at all,” firmly returned his patient, rising from her seat with difficulty, and again drawing the veil over the picture. “Think of it as if you knew nothing of what lies behind this veil. You have much to learn yet in repressing your fancies before you can rise to be a good and noble man.”

“I don’t know,” he repiled, for the moment flashing up into a semblance of eloquence. “It is the sole ambition of my life to be an artist. I love it with all my heart and soul, but have been forced into the drudgery of this medical profession till I can show the world and my friends some conception so powerful that every objection should at once be hushed. Such a picture I am now at work upon, and with a subject and effects such as this portrait contains worked into it, my triumph would be complete. You who have been the wife of an artist can understand my feelings. I would sacrifice anything to this one ambition. Now, Mrs. Lyons, you know how much depends on your granting this simple request—let me hear my sentence!”

The old woman was moved—visibly moved; for in spite of his carelessness and easy selfishness, there was a frankness and openness in his manner and talk especially winning to one living in poverty and obscurity.

But her decision remained firm and unaltered: she would not allow him to remove the picture, to copy it, or use it in any way. He plied her in every possible manner—w armly, reproachfully, and temptingly—but all in vain, and thus they parted for the day.

“I’ll get it yet,” he muttered to himself, as he descended the stair—“I’ll get it yet, though I should have to employ some one to steal it!”

Next day he returned to the subject, but found Mrs. Lyons cold, silent, and distant. All his offers were either answered with a smile or met by a grave silence and shake of the head more effectual and convincing than a torrent of words. Another day elapsed, and then he was firmly but politely requested not to renew his visit, his patient declaring that she had perfectly recovered, and would require no further medical attendance. His quick intelligence penetrated the shallow artifice to get rid of his importunities; but he was still gentleman enough to obey, with however bad a grace, and I daresay but for the merest accident would soon have forgotten all about the veiled portrait and its poor owner.

It happened that a few nights after he was over in a billiard room in Rose Street, having a quiet game with a friend, when in a pause his opponent chanced to say:

“By the bye, I suppose you don’t know that Bob, the marker here, is an accomplished thief? There, don’t start—he’s a clever thief, but quite a harmless one. He is not now in the profession, and as honest a man as breathes; but what I mean is that, for the fun of the thing, or a glass of beer, he will steal anything you like from any gentleman here to show his skill—on condition, of course, that the article be afterwards returned to its owner.”