As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased dancing;

As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. Then a shrill mother rose upon the view; "Cerises, M'sieu ? Rosine, dépêchez-vous !"

Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries,
Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay.
The Painter, watching the suspended cherries,
Never had seen such little fingers play ;-
As for the arm, no Hebè's could be rounder;
Low in his heart a whisper said "I've found
her."

"Woo first the mother, if you'd win the daughter!" Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame

Mère,

Almost with tears of suppliance besought her
Leave to immortalize a face so fair;
Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway
Voici Rosina,-standing at his gateway.

Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter
Rang through the studio as the girlish face
Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after
Showed like an Omphale in lion's case;
Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew
Pipes to the light its clear "Réveillez-vous,"

Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions,
Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song,
Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions,
Mute little moods of misery and wrong;
Only a child, of Nature's rarest making,
Wistful and sweet,

and with a heart for breaking!

Day after day the little loving creature

Came and returned; and still the Painter

felt,

Day after day, the old theatric Nature

Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine.

As for the girl, she turned to her new being,— Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call; Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing; Grew, as the flower on which the sun-rays

fall;

Loved if you will; she never named it so:
Love comes unseen,-we only see it go.

There is a figure among Boucher's sketches,

Slim, a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. This was no other than Rosina surely ;

None Boucher knew could else have looked so

purely.

But forth her Story, for I will not tarry:
Whether he loved the little "nut-brown maid";
If, of a truth, he counted this to carry

Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, Nothing we know, but only that before

More had been done, a finger tapped the door.

Opened Rosina to the unknown comer.

'Twas a young girl-"une pauvre fille," she said,

"They had been growing poorer all the summer; Father was lame, and mother lately dead; Bread was so dear, and,-oh! but want was bitter,

Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter?

Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute: Yes, she was pretty; and her face beside Shamed her poor clothing by a something in

it,

Grace, and a presence hard to be denied; This was no common offer it was certain ;"Alles, Rosina! sit behind the curtain."

Meanwhile the Painter, with a mixed emotion,
Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise,
Passed in due time from praises to devotion;
Last when his sitter left him on his knees,
Rose in a maze of passion and surprise,-
Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes.

Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit
Still in the old traditionary way,

Power to enjoy with yet a rarer merit,

Power to forget! Our Boucher rose, I say, With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing,

And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing

"This was no model, M'sieu, but a lady."

Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. "Est-ce que vous l'aimes?" Never answer made he! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new! "Est-ce que vous l'aimez?" sobbed Rosina's sor

row.

"Bon!" murmured Boucher; "she will come to-morrow."

How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry
Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the
chase,

Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry,
Following not less with unrelenting face.
Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee,
Woe to the Fawn! There is no way to flee.

Woe to Rosina! By To-morrow stricken,
Swift from her life the sun of gold declined.
Nothing remained but those gray shades that
thicken,

Cloud and the cold,—the loneliness—the wind. Only a little by the door she lingers,—

Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers.

No, not a sign. Already with the Painter

Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign; Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, Paled to the old sick Artifice again.

Seeing Rosina going out to die,

How should he know what Fame had passed him by?

Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness, Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness,

Lose the round life that only Love makes bright:

There is no succour if these things are taken. None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken.

So, in a little, when those Two had parted,— Tired of himself, and weary as before, Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. "Ah, the poor child!" the neighbours cry of her, "Morte, M'sieu, morte! On dit, des peines de

cœur !"

Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him; Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone,Just for a second, a dull feeling mocked him

With a vague sense of something priceless gone; Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type, The husk of man with which the days were ripe,—