tion, that they might have befitted a young prophet.
"Very, very beautiful!"
"'Tis Max—Max Rodenstein," said the lady with a faltering voice. "He was killed at Leipsic, at the head of a band of his friends and fellow students. Oh! Mr. Grey, this is a fair work of art, but if you had but seen the prototype, you would have gazed on this as on a dim and washed out drawing. There was one portrait, indeed, which did him more justice—but then, that portrait was not the production of mortal pencil."
Vivian looked at his companion with a somewhat astonished air, but Mrs. Felix Lorraine's countenance was as little indicative of jesting, as that of the young student whose miniature rested on her bosom.
"Did you say not the production of a mortal hand, Mrs. Felix Lorraine?"
"I'm afraid I shall weary you with my sto-
