That night Edgar dreamed that Flora, who had been buried a few weeks,
and of whose image his picture was the exact resemblance, stood before
him, pleading him to have pity on her lonely mother--he dreamed her hand
clasped his, and he awoke trembling.

He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers
which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would
soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed
him about the picture.

The Monday morning came, and with it the portrait of Flora, which had
been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame
had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the
picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last
time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvas.

The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the
passengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all
wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by a
pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna alighted,
and were followed by a servant, who took the safely cased portrait in
his arms, and accompanied them on board the ship. They soon met the
mother of Flora, and Anna took the picture and presented it to her, and
promised to care for the rose buds which bloomed at Flora's grave. Mr. H
received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of
the Italian widow, and her aged father, and to care for the valued
picture of Flora. Thanks and farewells closed the scene, when Anna, with
her father, returned home. There she found a note from Edgar, the
artist, requesting permission to call on Anna that evening. She wrote a
reply, saying that a previous engagement would forbid her complying with