in the city, an artist observed my daughter and followed us to our
humble home. He praised her countenance to me, and said her beauty was
rare. In all his life he had never seen face to compare with it, nor an
eye so full of soul--and begged to have me consent to his drawing her
portrait. After many urgent entreaties, my dear child consented. For
several mornings I went with Flora to the artist's room, though I could
ill afford the time, for our daily bread was to be earned. When he was
finishing the picture, Flora went alone. One day she returned, and
flinging into my lap her little green purse, she said:--'The picture
does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head aches badly.
They say the portrait is very like me, mother.'

"I resolved to go and see it the day following, but when the time came
that I first looked upon it, my dear child began to fade in my arms,
until she died. And here she is buried. Since then I go to the artist's
room to see her portrait, and there, full of life and beauty, she stands
before me, and I have permission to see it every day.

"But I am about to leave this country for our native land. My aged
father has long wished to return to his own country, and we shall soon
sail with our friends for Italy. I must leave the dear child here. But
if I can purchase the picture of the artist, I shall be happy. We are
poor; but by the sale of some little articles, we have raised money
enough to buy the picture, at the price which the artist demands for a
similar picture.

"When I went to buy it, you know not how I felt, when the artist,
notwithstanding all my pleadings, denied my request. His apology was,
that he had taken it for some purpose of his own--some great exhibition
of paintings--what, I could not fully comprehend. He would not sell it.