"She is lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of the World，indeed!"

"And may I not paint one like it for you?"

"Cui bono? No."

He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting，to prevent the card-board from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper，it was impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me，inexpressibly peculiar，and quite inprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape，face，and dress; for it traversed all，quick，keen as lightning. His lips parted，as if to speak: but he checked the ing sentence，whatever it was.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing in the world," was the reply; and，replacing the paper，I saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disappeared in his glove; and，with one hasty nod and "good-afternoon," he vanished.

"Well!" I exclaimed，using an expression of the district，"that caps the globe，however!"

I，in my turn，scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable，and being certain it could not be of much moment，I dismissed，and soon forgot it.