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"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. Surely she could ignore him. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. Her cheeks flushed a dull red.
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