Here, where "art's pure dwellers are," thou art secure as in a shrine! The hour's probation is over: the curtains close. And now the touching history of her love is told by Mr. Ultramarine to the listening students, and ere the Madonna face is hidden again in the Dunstable bonnet, the artists before the curtain have a little gift for the model. It is a purse, not heavy, but sufficient. Young artists cannot give much. But there was an unanimous determination that she should be protected by them until such time as she could be safely placed on a steamer "outward bound." And before a week had elapsed she stood again upon a deck; and never were farewells, waved to the departing passengers of the "Atlantic," fuller of generous sympathy, than those that bade adieu to Godiva! "Is that all?" said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, as I rolled up the manuscript. "That is all, my dear." "Did she find her lover?" said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. "I do not know," I replied; "but I suppose she did." "I hope she did," said Mrs. S., "from the bottom of my heart I do."-(A pause.)-" Come," said I, "it is late. To-morrow we must rise early, for you know the man is to bring the other horse here;—the one that belongs to his brother, Mrs. Sparrowgrass." CHAPTER IX. A Horse of another color-Ancient and Modern Points of a Horse-A suspected Organ and Retrograde Movement-Mr. Sparrowgrass buys the Horse that belongs to the Man's Brother-A valuable Hint as to Stable-building-A Morning Ride, and a Discovery-Old Dockweed-An Evening Ride, and a Catastrophe. "Ir rains very hard," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, looking out of the window next morning. Sure enough, the rain was sweeping broadcast over the country, and the tour Sparrowgrassii were flattening a quartette of noses against the window-panes, believing most faithfully the man would bring the horse that belonged to his brother, in spite of the elements. It was hoping against hope: no man having a horse to sell will trot him out in a rainstorm, unless he intend to sell him at a bargain—but childhood is so credulous! The succeeding morning was bright, however, and down came the horse. He had been very cleverly groomed, and looked pleasant under the saddle. The man led him back and forth before the door. "There, squire, 's as good a hos as ever stood on iron." Mrs. Sparrowgrass asked me what he meant by that. I replied, it was a figurative way of expressing, in horse-talk, that he was as good a horse as ever stood in shoeleather. "He's a handsome hos, squire," said the man. I replied that he did seem to be a goodlooking animal, but, said I, "he does not quite come up to the description of a horse I have read." "Whose hos was it?" said he. I replied it was the horse of Adonis. He said he didn't know him, but, he added, "there is so many hosses stolen, that the descriptions are stuck up now pretty common." To put him at his ease (for he seemed to think I suspected him of having stolen the horse), I told him the description I meant had been written some hundreds of years ago by Shakspeare, and repeated it- "Round-hooft, short-joynted, fetlocks shag and long, Broad brest, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide, Squire," said he, "that will do for a song, but it ain't no p'ints of a good hos. Trotters now-a-days go in all shapes, big heads and little heads, big eyes and little eyes, short ears or long ones, thick tail and no tail; so as they have sound legs, good l'in, good barrel, and good stifle, and wind, squire, and speed well, they'll fetch a price. Now, this animal is what I call a hos, squire; he's got the p'ints, he's stylish, he's close-ribbed, a free goer, kind in harness-single or double-a good feeder." I asked him if being a good feeder was a desirable quality. He replied it was; "of course," said he, "if your hos is off his feed, he ain't good for nothin'. But what's the use" he added, "of me tellin' you the p'ints of a good hos You're a hos man, squire: you know "_ "It seems to me," said I, "there is something the matter with that left eye.' "No, sir," said he, and with that he pulled down the horse's head, and, rapidly crooking his forefinger at the suspected organ, said, "see thardon't wink a bit." "But he should wink," I replied. "Not onless his eye are weak," he said. To satisfy myself, I asked the man to let me take the bridle. He did so, and, so soon as I took hold of it, the horse started off in a remarkable retrograde movement, dragging me with him into my best bed of hybrid roses. Finding we were tramp |