"I have tried to," answered Edith, "but how can I here? I have just been working in the dark, with no one to give me a word of advice. What ought I to do now? Do tell me what you really think."

It is no good to try draw, it is like learn

"If you ever want to be able to do any really good work, I am sure you ought to devote six or twelve months to nothing but drawing. to paint before you know how to ing to run before you can walk. If you can once draw well, the colouring will come easily enough."

"We all think Miss Melville has a very good eye for colour," put in her mother, who was not much better pleased than Violet with the Schoolmaster's criticisms.

"There is no doubt of that, Ma'am," said Stephen, so warmly, that he made quite a step back into the ladies' good graces. "Some of these bits of colour are really lovely, the harmonies are delicious. If you could only learn to draw, the colouring would be like child's play to you, Miss Melville."

Now, it will be perceived that Stephen talked rather grandly, but it must be remembered that he was by profession a schoolmaster, and he had picked up a good deal of artist's jargon, and had, in fact, been repeating some of Mr Hunt's own phrases.

"But you see I am not in London unfortunately," said Edith, "and there is no studio, and no British Museum to go to here. What can I do?"

"You can get very good castes from the Antique," replied Stephen. "It is drudgery, of course, but Mr Hunt always makes his pupils begin by drawing from them, first hands and feet, and then the whole figure." "I suppose that is the way you began?"

"Yes; I drew nothing but hands and feet for weeks and weeks."

"If you have any of your drawings with you, I should be so much obliged if you would let me see them, it would give me some idea how to set to work."

So it was arranged that Stephen was to come up the next evening with his own drawings.

By this time it was getting late. Wine and cake were brought in. Mr Champneys helped himself to a glass of wine, and offered one to Stephen.

"No thank you, Sir," said Stephen, "I never take wine."

"Are you a teetotaler?" asked Violet.

"No; that is to say, not a pledged one, but I never touch strong drink, I am sure I am better without it," he was going to say every one would be better without it, but thought it might appear disrespectful to the Rector, who was evidently enjoying his glass of port.

“Oh, I am so glad,” said Violet, with a bright smile. "I do so wish you could make all the boys follow your example. I do think this place would be almost a little paradise if it were not for the drink."

“I am sure I shall try," answered Stephen, looking at the sweet face.

CHAPTER VI.

EDITH'S WHIM.

WHAT a difference one short evening can make! Stephen went home to his tiny house, feeling almost that he had entered "a little paradise," as Violet had called Chiltern; he dreamt all night that he was in the sculpture galleries of the British Museum, and that her sweet smiling face looked at him from every statue.

He rose early the next morning, and took a walk by the river, and, quite by chance, of course, he passed by the Thicket on the opposite side, but there was no one in the garden except a man sweeping the lawn.

Somehow the schoolmaster got on better with his pupils that day than he had ever done before. He was bright and cheerful, and once or twice set the boys all laughing, notwithstanding which they were unusually attentive to their lessons. He asked after Jim Poole's baby, and Tom Rooke's grandmother; he had heard the boys tell Miss Violet that those individuals were ailing, and she had promised to come round and visit them. The afternoon schooling seemed rather more tedious, but it was over at last. Then the master lighted his bachelor-stove and made his cup of tea, and at once proceeded to dress. Surely he had never devoted so much

time to his toilet before. He washed, and scrubbed, and brushed, but could by no means satisfy himself. He stood a long time before the tiny looking-glass, inspecting the face therein reflected, with a curiosity that he had never displayed before. At last he turned away with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Bah!" he said to himself, "don't be a fool, Stephen, my boy; remember that you are nothing but a schoolmaster."

He looked at his watch, and found he had a good hour to spare before he could start for the Thicket. He had already collected a roll of drawings, so he took a book which the Rector had lent him. He soon became fascinated and absorbed, and was startled by the church clock chiming seven.

He soon reached the Thicket, and with an eager hand rang the bell, and was again admitted into the paradise.

In the meantime there had been a good deal of discussion going on about the schoolmaster among the higher powers.

Mrs Melville had driven down to the Rectory alone that afternoon, and there she had been closeted with her brother for more than an hour.

"Edith does so take things into her own hands," she said. "I meant to set to work very carefully, and try to find out something about the young man; and she rushes headlong into a friendship for him. Yes; I may positively call it a friendship. She invites him to come to the house again with his drawings to-night, and declares that she will take lessons of him. When I tried to reason with her this morning, and to show her

that she was very imprudent, she actually began to cry, and declared I always thwarted her, and that she should never be able to do anything as long as she lived if she was always opposed at every turn. And she has gone to bed with a bad headache. Violet takes her part, too; it really is very trying. I am sure I thought the young man rather impertinent to speak so freely of dear Edith's drawings; and I believe Violet did, too, but she would swear black was white if her sister said so. I'm sure I want to do everything to encourage the dear girl, but I do wish she would be a little more prudent. We know nothing about this young man. I don't suppose he can draw at all."

"I watched him pretty closely last night," replied the Rector, "and I must confess that I admired his courage in criticising a young lady's work so honestly. He might have given great offence to any less sensible girl; but it was evident that he never thought about who or what she was-he thought only of the work; the artist might have been any one-old man or young lady-for all he cared. He is evidently born to be a teacher, and he may be a great help to Edith. I do not think, my dear sister, you quite understand what a decided talent the child has. It is a thousand pities it should be wasted: and, to confess the truth, I do think she is getting into a namby pamby, 'pretty' style, as Rivers called it."

"Her pictures are quite good enough for Violet and me, and if we are satisfied, what more can she want? Why should this young fellow come with his notions about good drawing, and make her full of discontent? I am sure her drawing is good enough for Chiltern, and