knew how to dishevel and tumble down far be¬ 
low her waist, in a flow of roniantie distress. 
Her eyes, brown also, were large, and full of 
soft lire; and the little monkey had n trick of 
rendering them plaintive and path otic in ox- 
Jane (. ray, in which Polly, of con me, “sat" for 
Hu; young lady, at the con¬ 
clusion ol the sitting, said, very quietly: 
.. ' \ nu .?‘V r V f ''out me any more, r>lr. Ormond. 
\ou ve A n Is bed that picture, head and all, now. 
I in glad ol it, because 1 shouldn’t be able to 
come to xvni nuni,, *> 
Grey. That's done now. and I most say 
by. I’m very grateful to you, Frank, 
indeed, for all your kindoss. I’m sorrv ic 
i n't rayed luwseir so far ns smllln 
Frank, when she met him in soviet 
whole thing began “In the Park, ii 
lor she saw and heard a great deal, and under¬ 
stood all that she saw or heard. Without pro¬ 
tectors or adv isers, lonely but self-reliant, the 
girl walked along the edge of untenced pre¬ 
cipices circumspectly and shrewdly. She was 
ardent, and perhaps ambitious, but had a cer- 
daneing about the studio trying a burlesque pas 
which she had semi on the previous evening at 
the theatre. “There. Mr. Ormond, I’m rested 
now. On we go again! " 
, v ‘T.V/r 5 '“"“jo iiounj, zsutr t- r iHvuucerj 
hack ininliibly to s’oud. A creature by uo means 
too bright or good for human nature’s daily food, 
there was in her that “mystic sense of right " 
MOOBE’S BUBAL ISEW-YOBKEB 
SEPT. §8 
brown skirt, skillfully disposed as “drapery,” 
in artful folds. The whole attitude and expres¬ 
sion represented and represented well Im¬ 
ploring agony combined with tender despair. 
The bare arms were beautifully posed ; the eyes 
gleamed with a sublime splendor. 
The painter, my friend Frank Ormond, A. It. 
A.—is working with quiet excitement at his 
easel. His figure is tall; ho wears the velvet 
coat of his craft; he—but why describe him? 
Everybody knows Frank Ormond. Lot that 
pass. 
And now, reader, while painter and model 
Oho attitude was a trying one) ha ve “knocked 
off ” work Tor a little rest, while he lights a pipe 
and she, yawnlngly, stretches her sti 11' and weary 
limbs, lot us look round us at the delicious litter 
of a painter’s studio. 
The house is old, und dates, probably from 
Queen Anne’s days. It has, no doubt, been 
tlic habitation of nobles of that period, You 
cannot see much of the walls, but look at the 
doors, at the painted ceiling, at the splendid 
marble mantlopioce. Look at t he deep window 
plaoes and tall, thickly-sashed windows. It Is a 
house which Hogarth might haveU 9 ed for the 
residence of Lord Squanderlield. 
The studio is a large, throe-windowed room, 
cold and bn re of aspect. The backs of canvases 
framed with deal, lie about like bits of scenes 
out of use, und suggest somewhat the coulisses 
o( a theater. A lay figure, with a wooden fix¬ 
edness of aspect. Its head reminding one of a 
ship’s figurehead, slt9 in a renaissance chair, und 
wears a thirteenth-century costume. This fig¬ 
ure forms the principal still-life object in the 
room. In one corner reposes the major part of 
an old suit of armor, the dull and dinted breast¬ 
plate surmounted, in a rather drunken way, by 
a rust-rod helmet, A beit-hiltcd rapier, temp. 
Kllxaboth, which, says Frank, might have be¬ 
longed to Raleigh, leans against the wall, and 
near it is a small-sword which suggests the tea¬ 
cup times of Anne, tbc flowing wig and stiff 
skirts, the figure of Addison, or the brawling 
Mohocks who Stopped 8wil t’s chair. From the 
open door of a richly curved dark armolre, de¬ 
pends a Japanese robe. Fluster casts or foot 
and hands, busts, masks and a torso, with the 
muscles strongly accented by dust, arc sprin¬ 
kled about, and contrast chalkily witli the color 
ol hangings, bits of silk drosses, and a remnant 
of tapestry. Two old foils, one broken, and 
both grievously damaged, lie across the arms of 
a magnificent antique chair, which Ha* a seat of i 
crimson velvet, on which rest, a Spanish mando¬ 
lin and one boxing glove; while a strip of yol- I 
low Chinese silk has slipped down on the floor. 1 
A stuffed monkey, with a perennially diabolical ! 
smile upon a swollen visage, buluncos uneasily , 
upon legs with a padded look about them, while 
a stuffed owl stares glass!Iy In sullen gravity, ( 
The bust, of oue Roman Emperor is crowned j 
with a Van dyke hat, and a white petticoat is I 
supported by two Velasquez boar-spears. A t 
very handsome oak table, with massive legs, is H 
covered with Venetian glasses and Flemish hot- t 
ties, with “pots" of various sorts, comprising t 
Gris de Flandros, Satsutna jars, and tho blue 1 
lunge Lizen, or six-mark Japanese ware, while , 
an exquisite little Japanese cabinet is crested r 
by a handful of peacock’s feathers. 81cetches e 
in charcoal and in oils, copies of world-renown- " 
od pictures, studies, unfinished paintings, are 
strewn about In picturesque and grotesque con- r 
fusion; ami, finally, at one end of the room. .' 
with the best light falling full upon it, stands 
the guillotine-like easel, on which rests the pie- j 
turn of tho hour, lhe canvas which absorbs all a 
Frank Ormond’s thoughts and is freighted with 11 
all his ambition, the picture upon which he is jj 
now working. L 
The little model interested me, both In her in¬ 
dividualism and as a member of a class which 
furnishes to i he artist the materialism of the ro¬ 
mantic. t tried to learn something of her his¬ 
tory, but 1 succeeded only sketchily, and in a 
piecemeal manner. Her name wasFolly Brown. 
Sbcwas distinctly prett y and piquaut. Sbo pos¬ 
sessed, among her various merits as a model, 
very long und,beautiful brown hair, which she 
which so stirred the enthusiasm of the German 
philosopher. Exposed to so much dungrr.su” 
mined by so little he/p against evil, some unseen 
power kept this girl h?w,„s really pure and 
good. 8he had, no doubt, n fcndrrw for Frank 
,ier eiwewd, practical sense 
?P°Y 1 ? er . that- there was, as she termed it, “ no 
«** *" indulging such a feeling; and. taught 
by the hard lessons of her Life, she had learned 
to repress, to restrain, and to forego. 
'vasjust finishing 
pression, so that eh© wus particularly valuable 
as a model for young heroines in distress, vir¬ 
gin martyrs, betrayed beauties, and tho like. 
Her complexion was that of a light brunette; 
had she lived more in the country, tier cheeks 
would, it is probable, have shown a ill tic flush 
of tender red through the pule, soft olive of her 
h-int. Sbc had a nice little nose: tho mouth was 
good, though perhaps a little largo, but she 
know how to purse it up and to draw the cor¬ 
ners down so as partially to conceal this little 
defect. The shape of the little half arch, half 
tender face was a lino oval, and the head was 
remarkably well set on. She was good in pro¬ 
file, but better as a three-quarter face with up¬ 
turned eyes. Her hands and foot were small, 
come to you again. 
Not come again, Polly—why not? I suppose 
y ou Rre ye?y full of engagements just now; but 
you mustn t throw me over. I shall want you 
next for my Dorothea. 
no, it can t be that, lull must come. There’s 
no model at all like you fur some or my work. 
An, j sen! you ve been spooning with some 
lellow, or in trouble, eh. Miss Poll''’’ 
“ No,”Irepfled the young lady, with demure 
dignity, no trouble, thank you, Mr. Frank. 
J he 1act is- I can t come, because because I'm 
going to lie married." 
“Married-whew J ” cried tho painter, facing 
and the figure, though a trifle jictttc was round f? und ©ttsol and taking Ins pipe out of 
iy, but not ei boisterous, and tho girl had innate A good one, I hope, for your sake ’’ 
tact and taste. 
“ Yoe," observed Frank, critically, “she is a 
first-rate model, in her line. It is only when 
you see n good deal of her that you detect the 
least little trifle of vulgarity, which comes no 
doulil, from her mother. Do you know I rather 
like that littlosuspiciou of plchoianistti ; il shows 
that her base touches the people, She is good, 
you know, lor historical heroines. She is, in 
(act, lit lor what actors call the juvenile tragedy 
line of business. Do you remember my Olivia 
in the Vicar of Wakefield? Well, she sat, and 
did splendidly, for that. She's always punctual, 
and pleasant, to deal with; she’s li vely and frisky, 
but never rude, and she's really a good lltili- 
girl. Out. of all the models 1 know, she's about 
Ibe best. I like little Polly; il you warn (o 
please her, you've only got to send her to the 
play." 
J lto little model had considerable imitative 
ami dramatic talent, and readily picked up the 
nick ol her trade. She quickly caught u paint¬ 
er’s idea, und produced l ho expression, or caught 
the attitude, which his purpose required. She 
nan a little leminlne voice, til most os exquisitely 
dal nty as Marie Wilton’s, and hud conquered 
that difficulty, so great to one of her class, of n 
good pronunciation. 1 
Polly’s mother was housekeeper in a set of 
chambers. She hail been on the stage in her 
.vouch, und retained a strong passion for the 
>««*«*• Ot her father I could letirn nothing. 
Folly hi'i'sulf, ill her early girlhood, had been 
theatrical. She datieed as a fairy in pantomimes, 
and formed one ol a child-group of peasants, or 
what not, as required by l lie ballet-master; but, 
to her great disappoint ment. sle- uevcr could ob¬ 
tain a" speaking part." One Winter:.severe ill¬ 
ness threw her out of her usual employment. 
\\ hen she recovoredshe foundunopening in i he 
theater, and she was, fora short time, driven to 
resort to Sewing. She was 1 hen engaged In Iho 
extensive and prosperous out-tilting establish¬ 
ment of Messrs. Abediu gound Melchisedek; but 
this miserably-paid drudgery did not long suit 
Miss Polly, Mm win unlmjipy, and grew Uesne- 
late, or rather determined. Sanguine In her 
jouthlul hopefulness, she suddenly discharged 
herself, and trusted to the chapter of accidents. 
One day, when very poor, Polly at rolled Into flic 
1 ark. Silting down upon u bench, still and quiet 
as an Arctic Winter night, she thought und 
Never mind, Mr. Frank," responded Miss 
Folly, composedly. “Perhaps you'll know some 
day, but not. now. Thank you for nil voitrklnd- 
ncss, Mr. Ormond. You’ve always been very 
kind to me. and I I like you very much. Yes; 
I in doing vei> well, thank you. He is a good 
lellow—1 like him, and I mean Hint we shall be 
ver> happy. Rut when I am married i can't 
«; ©r Sit again any more, 11 > ou please.” 
- . u .! J . k Ormond growleddiscontt ntedly. He did 
not like losing his model, and he felt a vague 
Jealousy ol the unknown. There was a sneer in 
his tone as he Said ; 
“I suppose*. Folly, you have caught some old 
tool, who is taken with a pretty lacc, nod your 
union will be about ns Incongruous as a wood¬ 
bine twining round a wooden leg." 
n whut l y , ou ,ik ?’ Ml ' Ormond," said 
liitle lolly, calmly. ‘J know what you do 
think; but never mind that. I shall toll vou 
Just nothing about ft. I only Come to-day ” 
(Folly was tjlng on her bonnet.) “because J 
to give up Cuming to tin- studio—1 liked tho life 
—but it h till over now. Thunk you six shillings; 
yes, Hint :■ right. My career as a model is end¬ 
ed. unco more—good-by, Mr. Frank ! ” 
8iie shook hand* cheerily, and then shut tho 
studio door tor t he last time. 
The strange thing was, that the little witch 
really had made a good marriage. She had won 
the affections of a good man, ol' position and 
property. I lie reticent Jittie monkey nev er, I 
believe, told any one of her courtship, or the 
old Park: on the old bench, you know;" and 
tins was the alpha and omega of her coiifessl-n. 
> LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 
1 Oitr Oon in Heaven, from that holy place, 
, r| o each of us an angel guide has given; 
But mothers of dead children have more grace. 
For they give angejs to their Gon and Heaven. 
How can a mother's heart feel cold or dreary, 
Knowing Her dearer self safe, happy, warm ? 
How can she feel her road too chirk or dreary. 
Who knows her treasure sheltered from the 
storm ? 
How can she sin ? Our hearts may bo unheeding. 
Our God forgot, our holy Saints defied s 
But can a mother hear her dead child pleading, 
And thrust those angel hands aside 
Those little hands stretched down to draw her o’en 
Nearer to Gon by mother love :—We all 
Are blind and weak, yet surely she can never, 
With such a stake In Heaven, fail or fall. 
.She knows that, when the mighty angels raise 
Chorus in Heaven, one little silver tone. 
Is hers forever, that one little praise, 
One little happy voice, is all her own. 
We may not see her sacred crown of honor. 
But all the angels flitting lo and fro 
Pause smiling as they pass.-1 hey look upon her 
As mother of an angel whom they know. 
One whom they lert nestled at M \ u v’s feet,— 
The children 'a place in Heaven,—who softly sings 
A little chant to please them, slow and sweet, 
Or, smiling, strokes their little folded wings ; 
Or give them Her white lilica or Her beads 
I o play with ; yet, In spite of Hower or song, 
They often lift a wistful look that pleads 
And asks Her why their mother stays so long. 
1 hen our dear Queen makes answer she will call 
tier hoy soon : mean while they arc beguiled 
To wait axd listen while She tells them all 
a story of Her Jesus ns a child. 
Ah, Saints In Heaven may pray with earnest will 
And pity for their weak aud erring brothers : 
l’et there is prayer in Heaven more tender still,— 
The little children pleading for their mothers. 
»,* 
-*-♦-•- - 
SELFISHNESS vs. CHARITY. 
The two spirits, Selfishness and Charity, are 
strangely associated in life. Side by side they 
walk in contrast. One ever disseminating, tho 
< fiber ever absorbing. One demanding of others, 
the other granting of itself. Selfishness claims 
the world owes him a living; Charity believes 
he owes a life to the world. The one is jealous 
ol his good name, desiring a reputation he does 
not deserve, while tho other, meriting applause, 
shuns the praise of an unstable public. The one 
is resentful of real or supposed injuries while 
the other “ suffered! long and is kind." Selfish¬ 
ness claims services and gifts and deffotenee, 
and when denied moans, “ Why am 1 defrauded 
oi mi due?" Charity is full of thankfulness 
without, other artificial Kolaueiuent, Somepaint- thHt Its y ' rts rnf,y not bo despised, that they 
ers expressed angor at losing their little model; J,,,i y be appreciated and ho fruitful of much 
... . . mwm r oi- in- 
fame, and,.-isshell,id been generady lilted, many yobtmenti *’ this ls !l motive power -Chanty is 
good wishes accompanied her change ol' post- human, therefore he desires to nee Ins efforts 
Frank Ormond’s thoughts and is freighted with thought what she could do, what slm should do, 
all his ambition, the picture upon which he is {S.?!'™ vL 'S e' arly , Sp '' in * * 
now workino- puiutois w<we hard at work for the- ACftdumy, 
woi king. and good models were scarce.-Frank Ormond 
And so the happy painter works from year to happened to be passing by. He wanted a girl- 
year-labor, completion weariness, fruition, re- Fofly^ “thee MgSJ*.X^pokeTu 
commencement. His whole work and hope are proposed t hat she should come and ait to 'him 
concentrated, for the time, upon the picture lolly consented, and went the next morning to 
with which he remains face to face for many f U ,i °Yi 'V •'“‘itouniln ncw trade, which 
lonely months. It is finished at last: finish 
just when It must be completed, in order to be moderately well. She grew at inched to ! the free 
sent into the Academy; and then the reaction nil(i ,; ’ as ' V Iwhointan waj.s of thostudlo, and was 
of lassitude, after a long tension, begins. His **mode^ 
work has gone out from him; the painter feels Joan ot Are. I first made 1 1 <■ r a C(t iini n taiiee°IVd- 
weary of the picture over which be has felt so by l lie way, always had a supcrstltlrui about 
many fluctuationsof depression and delight. It »> ’♦ V .'" 1 lbal ", i vasa I’luoe which 
ba, absorb,* so „.uo), hlmsolf tha, bo cannot pri,p“SV,W^k“ »h^ uiJS /!?', 
judge it truly; he alternates between confidence and I am sure Unit some day some great good 
and despondency: he sighs ha It'with regret, half J 01 '* 1111 © will happen tome in that dear old Dark, 
in relief, as his distracting darling is carried ^Vwas ll^lv'off^S < S"'' 5y ° U #Bft 8UW 
forth from his doors. Then he relaxes the long 'The life of a model is not without perils and 
concentrated, for the time, upon the picture 
with which he remains face to face for many 
lonely months. It is finished at last: finished 
just when It must be completed, in order to be 
sent into the Academy; and then the reaction 
of lassitude, after a long tension, begins. His 
work has gone out from him; the painter feels 
weary of the picture over which he has felt so 
many fluctuationsof depression and delight. It 
has absorbed so much of himsolf that he cannot 
judge it truly; he alternates between confidence 
and despondency: he sighs halt' w i tb regret, half 
in relief, as his distracting darling is carried 
forth from his doors. Then he relaxes the long 
strain of anxious labor; he amuses himsedf, and 
half forgets his art; he works but little, if at all. 
The picture gets well hung; then comes the pri¬ 
vate view, with the critics; then the public 
crowding about the shining rows in the splendid 
gallery; then follow the favorable notice, the 
praise of friends, the sneer of “ brother " rivals; 
then all this pusses away, until, after due relax¬ 
ation, the painter recommences wilh renewed 
ardor his work so beautiful and loved. A paint¬ 
er. by 1 he way, lists one great ad vantage over an, 
author—ho is sure of His spectators, of his pub¬ 
lic. If his work be hung in a good exhibition, it 
is sure to be seen by all those whom the painter 
would wish to sec it. An author lias to go to 
his readers; but his spectators always come to 
a painter. 
Meanwhile Frank, twisting Ids mustache as he 
gazes ou his picture, and now and then throw¬ 
ing in a deft and rapid touch of the hrush, is 
waiting until his model shall have rested in or¬ 
der to go on. 
“ Bother the skirt: " cries that young person, 
who, with a view to warming herself, has been 
Like that Mattie, sometimes a ‘near cousin o' 
the Laird ol Lirnrnerflctid'a,” and who, when eie- 
Vfttcl t<> the position of Mrs. Bailie Nieol Jarvie, 
behaved excel Ian tiy in her exaltation, JHtlo Foil 
ly made a model wife. She bad all a womun’s 
pliability, adaptability and tact; and she 6oon 
picked up the style uud mappers necessary to 
her new position. She was naturally grateful, 
and she hfttl a Little touch of WOmun» pride* 
pride hi hersoU'. and pride for her husband! 
8bo wished to make her husband happy, and 
was determined that he should not have to blush 
tor his choice. She set to work, too, to educate 
herself in her way. Havingu strong motive to 
impel her, nod great liatiirij quickness, she soon 
succeeded lu acquiring a respectable \ oncer of 
culture: and Frank Ormond who meets her 
from time to time, told me that she had devel¬ 
oped and Improved in an altogether surprising 
manner. 1 believe tiiat she succeeded, without 
apparent effort, in educing from Mr. Frank tbe 
respect due to her new position, no her than the 
familiarity hUciy to arise from their old rela¬ 
tions, und yet she was quite frank, and kind, 
aud natural, with him. 
“By Jove!” cried Frank, “when 1 took her 
down to dinner the other day at the Howards', 
I could hardly believe the sell-possessed, lady- 
Uke woman by whom I was fitting had ever 
been the little monkey that used 8a often to 
dance burlesque dances about my studio! But 
woman are wonderful creatures, sir. Their 
% a r u "* » irl: hut *>Uy trod knowleiigc of tlic world boats our s If they were 
ff,';,',» b ? r n H1 ; da,| t'ei ous path with a firm, only as good actresses on the stage as they are 
Jlght Step. H(*j innooemje was HOT. iunoranrua ? ott* it. thfl dmimitir* jirt vhai.m im in > 
uuii miegnxy or wui ana quiet force at' ebaruc- 
ter which held her upright. Very unconscious¬ 
ly, the little lowly tiling was a sort of worldly 
heroine. J 
Natural character, and th© influences of the 
circumstances which surrounded und molded 
it, produced some rather Complex contradic¬ 
tions aud problems ,u our model. Seen in some 
aspects, you would have pronounced her to bo 
a little good-for-nothing; merry and pleasant, 
indeed, but worthless. Yet you would have 
judged hot wrongly had you based an opinion 
upon the superficial trivialities which she i urneil 
outside. She never made any pretense ot good¬ 
ness; she rather look pains to show her worst 
side, to appear much worse than she really was. 
She had naturally a light side tu her character, 
and she emphasized her levity in all that she 
showed of herself to others. Nur was she, at 
times, wholly free from parsing Hi rills of temp- 
ialien; but, like the noedle of the compass, 
winch, though it vibrates tremulously, yet ultl- 
i.xxiJxjiitK wioiq j ii uer carnage, sue ao- 
peared positively elegant and dutinutir.. She 
was particularly well-dressed, and had a piquant 
touch of yrwme clnine in her manner. 
Docs any one who has ever really belonged to 
Bohemia pass out of it into FhiUstiu, or even in¬ 
to higher regions, without an occasional retro¬ 
spect Of regret, and a backward glance, coupled 
with a sigh ( 
Did our Fully, lolling upon her easy carriage 
cushion, ever look back with a tinge of sadness 
to tho days in which she used to trudge on foot, 
through mod and ruin, to the stage door, or to 
the painters studio? What does she think when 
she visits tho Royal Academy? How*does she 
Jeel when she goes to the theater? Does she 
ever speculate upon the new model (the golden- 
haired one! who now sits to Frank Ormond? 
Does she, as she gazes upon the “Amaranthine 
Bowers of Boundless Joy,” recall the feelings of 
the nmmntas who, clothed In sheeny tiusel, 
float ethereally upon iron supports in the ideal 
atmosphere of blue and red lights? I do not 
kuow; 1 have no hint which would enable me 
to solve the problem ; but 1 am assured that she 
is gratefully happy in her married life; and 
that na a wife, she is still a model. 
good. Human nature'desires returns for in¬ 
vestments; this is a motive power—Charity is 
human, therefore ho desires to nee his efforts 
ptoduetivo; he desires also to see others using 
their latent powers. These desires he does not 
always obtain, for Selfishness, languishing in 
miserable discontent, is ever defrauding Charity. 
Selfishness has a thousand excusesfrom service, 
and so shirks his responsibilities upon Charity! 
lie claims to be too tired, or too weak, or too 
incapable, or too hurried, or too refilled, or too 
burdened to perform disagreeable duties. So 
Selfishness is often the “hen with one chick,” 
and Charity, with a dozen chicks, must care for 
some other one's brood. 
Thus it goes, burdens are unequally borne. 
The generous become the vict ims of imposition ; 
but they should not, therefore, fall In courage, 
hut ever remember that they are richer In their 
loss than the selfish in their gain. 
But who are the selfish? Is there one in the 
world who is selfish—in his own eyes? If we 
may not 
“ See Our Bel's as ithers see us,” 
xve may know the selfish about us by their 
fruits. No man who sits with his fourth news¬ 
paper, and sees a slender woman—even a ser¬ 
vant—carry a burden so heavy that it nearly 
doubles her sideways, can be unselfish. 
No able woman, who habitually allows a wea¬ 
ried husband, or father, or brother, to return to 
an uritidyj home, and a late, unpa stable meal, 
can be unselfish. No one who receives a well- 
moant kindness unthankfully can be unselfish. 
No one who is careless of tbe discomfort of 
others, who never dresses well, nor arranges a 
room, nor beautifies the grounds surrounding 
the house, nor does one or moreof the thousand 
nameless little acts that gratify the tastes, or 
refresh and gladden the hearts, of others—no 
one who scorns these things can be quite un¬ 
selfish. 
He who has never a smile nor a tear, nor an 
impulse of kindness toward others, is unfit to 
live. 
-- 
When we are In trouble, whatever tiiat trou¬ 
ble may have arisen from—whether from gin, or 
from oonscience, or from affection, or from re¬ 
morse, or from bereavement-the command is. 
Look to J exits the author and finisher of your faith 
—not to Jehovah. 
Christ is watching from hea\ r en, those in 
whom his heart is, and in whom his blood is. 
He is watching paternally, and not merely as a 
spectator would watch in the excitement of a 
contest. 
