false artist has done from choice what the true artist has sometimes been compelled to do from necessity; and the false artist has chosen to court and flatter the popular taste, until the end of art, as a gift of GOD, to be used to the glory of GoD and the elevation of man, has been lost in the idea of a means of pecuniary profit, and men sell themselves and their gift for money and popularity."

"That is the secret of a lowered art, Mr. Lester: when once a money-getting spirit enters in, there is an end of true art; and when the high motive is lost, the high result is lost too. I have often thought it would be a good plan were priests, poets, and painters provided with a home and living, so that they might pursue their office undisturbed by worldly cares.'

"That is outspoken heresy, Mr. Francis, to nineteenth century days; for people smile in scorn at the thought of the cloister artist, planning in his cell some design of beauty. Or how many of our painters would now prepare, like Fra Angelico, for his work by devotion, though the saintly spirit still shines out in his beautiful designs. But they say such times were dark ages, for

'Faith's soft light is darkness to the world.'"'

Mr. Francis smiled with pleasure at Ion's sympathy; and finding that his time was nearly expired, took one more round of examination in the circle of his students, and then bade them all good morning.

CHAPTER XIX.

"The world's a room of sickness, where each heart
Knows its own anguish and unrest;

The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his, who skills of comfort best;
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
Enfeebled spirits own."

Christian Year.

THE daylight was fading fast as Clement Morton passed into the hall of Lester Court. The sight of Ion's brougham waiting at the door, hastened Clement's already hurried steps; but there was no appearance of haste within, for the master of the house was in his little studio, very leisurely placing away some books, and without turning to see who the intruder was, he observed, "You need not be so quiet, I know well enough who it is,—some one who has a near-sighted nervousness of stumbling over books, which somebody else has a careless habit of leaving on the floor."

But Clement made no answer, and Ion looked round inquiringly. He caught a glimpse of his friend's face, white with some unusual emotion, and with one spring towards him, had turned him round to the light, before he was sufficiently conscious of the intention to resist, and flashed an eager glance upon him as though he would read his soul.

"What is it, Clement? You are ill."

"No, no,-nothing;-don't speak to me.'

Oh, is it that? then you are come for your music." And Ion instantly took his seat at the instrument, and began playing without a pause. The tones he woke were such as fall soothingly upon the listening ear, as the consciousness of love informs the soul, and still the throbbing heart, as the enfolding wing of the guardian spirit round some suffering babe. Ion played on for many minutes, neither speaking nor turning to glance at his companion, who had thrown himself at full length on a couch, hiding his face in the cushions. He neither spoke nor moved, not even when Ion rose and came towards him, for Clement was unconscious that the sounds in which he was entranced

were only echoing in his memory now. He was in that state of mental languor which follows the storm of passion; and a confused sense of wrong and remorse clouded his perceptions. But he was roused by Ion's touch, which he could ever distinguish from all others,-firm, yet gentle, as of one so conscious of power as almost invariably to soften any decided evidence of its possession.

Now, tell me, Clement, what it is."

The tone as gentle as the touch, and as powerful too. Clement rose instantly, and leaning against the bookshelves, said, with averted face, and in dreamy, involuntary accents, "I have quarrelled with my father!"

"Oh, not that, my Clement," said Ion, pleadingly, "only a passing difference-some mistake. Tell me all, at once."

Ion's hand was still resting on Clement's shoulder, and the tightening grasp of roused anxiety compelled him to speak again, though he would have given worlds to be silent: for Evil in the presence of Love recoils shudderingly, seeing its own degradation yet more darkly. And in telling those who

love us what we know they will mourn over, and is other than that they ought to hear from us, the consciousness falls heavily upon the heart, that we have been loved for being other than we really are, now seeming even to our conscience to be nothing more than empty hypocrites before GOD and man.

Clement's tale was soon told. His father had commanded him to proceed to London in two days, to attend to some business which required the presence of one connected with the firm: some irritating remarks from his aunts, who were present, intimating that Clement's absence from the society and influence of Illingham was highly desirable for him, had roused his hasty temper to an angry reply. This gave rise to bitter reproaches from the father, respecting his son's want of concern in his interests, until he had goaded the young man on to an obstinate refusal to leave Illingham for any space of time, however brief, or to attend any longer to his duties in the counting-house.

In a storm of passion, Clement had left the house, only to feel how wrong he had been, the very instant he stepped across the threshold: for he was very tender in conscience, although too proud to make an open acknowledgment of error, immediately following conviction. And he had come with an almost instinctive impulse to Ion, half dreading a repulse; and he now looked up, timidly, to see what effect his relation had produced on his companion. The bright reflection of the setting sun, falling upon Ion's pale, earnest countenance, as he leant against the window, lighted up its refined and spiritual beauty, but it displayed no expression of indignant surprise, or want of sympathy. There was a depth of sorrow in those sad eyes, uplifted to the evening sky, that sent a pang of self-reproach to Clement's heart,

"What am I to do, Ion? I pain you, I

such conduct."

see, by "You wrong yourself, my Clement, by such things as these, but now you mean to repair this as far as you can, do you not ?"

He spoke inquiringly, but no words so gently uttered were ever more commanding, so that Clement said, languidly, "I will do what you think right."

"Dear Clement," returned Ion, and he looked up, anxiously, "I do not want you merely to follow what I say, but to reflect a little for yourself, and I am sure you will see plainly the line between duty and inclination."

"Inclination ?" repeated Clement, impatiently, "It is more than inclination. I very well know what being sent up to London may result in,— perhaps being settled there in another house; and then what is to become of me, away from every one who has a good influence over me,-away from you and Mr. Bernard. My father seeks to deprive me of all these benefits, just to advance his own worldly interests; and you, too, think it easy to submit.'

If you could but see how much such conduct involves a want of faith-a doing evil that good may come! For our safety or our stedfastness does not consist in the nearness or the assistance of any earthly friend, however devoted. When we are earnest, and seek our only true Strength, it is never denied us, and it is thus higher that you must learn to look in the most insignificant incident of every-day life."

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Yes, it is all very well to those who have faith. I don't believe I have much. I want something within reach to keep me to my duty; and of course in leaving here I lose all such help, and you call wishing to avoid that, something more than inclination, I should think ?”