THE INSPIRED ARTIST. 145
And there it was indeed, a full length portrait of Ethel in all her wonderous beauty, the folds of white satin, and the gleam of the pearls, shining through the dim twilight of the evening.
" Keep my secret Walter, I wish to paint another before I say anything to father."
A few months later, at one of the shop windows in a well-known thorough- fare, might have been seen, early and late, a coming, and going crowd of ad- miring people, and what were they looking at. The picture of a baby, in a silk lined, swinging basket, evidently just aroused from slumber, reaching for a coral, swung from the lace covered top. A lovelier face was never seen, the flesh tints were like apple blossoms, the hair like spun gold, the eyes mocked the azure of the heavens, and two pearly teeth shone between the half open, rosebud lips. The hands, soft, plump, and rosy, with delicious dimples em- bedded in the tiny knuckles.
" Oh ! said one, there never was a baby born, as perfect as that."
" If there was, I never happened to see it." But Ethel who happened to hear the remark, knew just where to put her hand on that very baby, any minute it should suit her so to do. Of course the picture was a success.
Earnest Langdon standing at the window recognized the coloring, the knack of touch, the flesh tints, and muttered, " By George, that ought to be mine, but it isnt, more's the pity, but — but — why — before heaven ! its Ethel's baby."
"Whose baby? may I make bold to ask, sir."
" Why my daughter's, blockhead," he cried in uncontrollable agitation.
"Can it be possible Walter has succeeded? and like that too."
Who can picture his astonishment when he learned that not Walter, but his own daughter was the artist.
At one time it had been his ambition to teach Ethel his art, but one thing and another had intervened, and the time had gone by. How little he had dreamed that she was imbibing it with every breath she drew.
Her next effort was her husband's portrait, and that was a success too.
Soon orders began to come from outside, and to shorten my story, it was not long before Ethel found herself able to take a studio in one of the first streets in London, and her orders were often so numerous that she was almost at her wits end to fill them. She bought a handsome house, furnished it ele- gantly, and kept several servants ; her days of privation were at an end.
With plenty of means Walter found no difficulty in publishing a book, which proved to be wonderfully pleasing to the public, and paved the way for many more. And they are still living, the most amazingly successful, and the happiest couple London can boast.
Earnest Langdon is proud enough of his talented children and his beautiful grand-children. And Sir Walter Mowbray gladly received his recreant son back into his good graces. With Ethel and the children he was enchanted.
Most of the incidents of this story are true, being told to me by a lady lately from London, who v^ouches for the truth of the miraculous gift of paint- ing, suddenly discovered by a beautiful daughter of a celebrated painter. I have only romanced a little, the love story being literally true.
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