the tutor of your brothers is also a friend of my friendthus I can learn for you how it is with your brothers, and convey any message. Shall I do so?"

"Yes; our affectionate brotherly greetings. We want to know if it is well with them. And oh! is it well with our other brothers in Manchester-with our three brothers in that dark, smoky Manchester, where there is no blue sky, and no sun as in Egypt: we are very anxious about our brothers in Manchester! They write now and then, but not much we cannot make out whether it is well with them-whether they are content with their guardians. It is well with our dear brothers in Paris-very well; they have horses to ride, and much money. But is it well with our brothers in Manchester, where there is no skyonly smoke!"

I promised that I would learn all I could for them; and this promise diffused around me universal satisfaction. The remainder of the evening, until supper was announced, glided away in pleasant talk: mine was principally with Hildegard. We began with Art, of course, and then wandered away to the Alps; and in spirit we ascended these Alps, so dear to both of us, gathering on our way the loveliest bouquets of Alpine flowers-golden, lilac, peacock azure, and crimson: we ascended from the rich pasture valleys up through solemn pine forests, till we gathered, at the risk of losing our lives, the wonderful Edel-weiss (noble-white), which alone blooms amidst eternal snow. God has lovingly clothed its stalks and its petals in a garment of white wool: it is a little flower of flannel!

The Blush-rose gave me a bouquet of this Edel-weiss, which I wore all the evening.

Isabel and I have been invited by this kind family to

What a

visit them in their beautiful mountain home. paradise will our visit be! and what rainbows of real, not imaginary, flowers will we gather!

The elegant and abundant supper was served in a diningroom on the ground-floor. The room was hung with oilpaintings of the lakes and mountains around their mountain-home. All was bright and sparkling with delicate china, snowy damask, and glittering silver. Different, however, in many ways from what a supper-table in England at Christmas-time, in a family of equal consideration, would have been: it was much less sumptuous and costly, and there was no decoration of one's well-beloved old holly; but the hospitality, the grace, and the refinement, might have vied with the most hospitable, the most refined of English homes. How talkative and merry was everybody! How gay those nine scarlet fezes made the supper-table look, seated alternately with the blond-haired, blue-eyed sisters! The swarthy oriental countenances, contrasting with these delicate complexions and golden hair of the north, would have rejoiced old Etty's heart, and made him, had he seen them, paint more crowds than ever of swarthy heroes and golden-haired, blue-eyed nymphs.

The little sons of the house, Angelo and Hugo, were entertaining their guests at a supper-table in an adjoining room. The "Mother" rose once or twice from the head of the table during supper, and glided into the children's apartment, from which, as the laughter and hum of voices in the grown-up banqueting-room sunk ever and anon, we heard children's shrill gay laughter and a chorus of merry little voices. Once, as the "Mother" passed the Blush-rose on her return to the supper-table, the Blush-rose pressed the "Mother's" hand, laid it against her cheek, and mother and daughter exchanged a momentary glance into each other's eyes of the tenderest love.

People seemed as though they never could leave the enchanted circle;-and who willingly would have left it? At last, however, adieus were made; there was a hum of voices—a wrapping-up in hooded cloaks and shawls-and away we were driving once more through the snowy streets.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE FRANCISCAN IS THERE!". -WE REACH NYMPHENBURG.

STREET PICTURES.

January 10th, 1852.-To-day, going and returning from the studio, I saw several beautiful pictures in the streets. I often see such; and could-so brilliant are they in colouring-fill a sketch-book with them, calling them prismatic colours from the streets.

Here is a picture à la Mulready: a group of peasants is setting out in a sledge homewards from a little inn. The inn is quaint and heavy,, standing at the corner of a street. The warm obscurity of a heavy archway, through the gloom of which loom forth tubs and barrels, forms a picturesque and quiet background to my brilliant group. The road is of a tawny brown, from up-trampled, though still crisp snow, with pure snow only seen here and there, close up about the door-posts, and flecking the walls. But there is no expanse of snow to form a broad light in my picture. The tone of the whole picture is warm and rich. The sledge is a queer old sledge; its body is of basketwork, a deeper shade of tawny-brown than the snow on the road; the horse brown-approaching to a purplishblack; he is very lean and shaggy, and harnessed with rope; an old, stained, yellow-green cloth is flung over his back. A very old woman with much ado is settling her

self in the sledge. She is leaning forward, so that her face is quite in shadow. Her head is bundled up in a brilliant crimson handkerchief, her body is bundled up in a cloak of the richest ultra-marine. On this side of the sledge, standing with her back turned towards me, her face looking up at the old woman, is a peasant girl. Her head is covered with a dark olive-green handkerchief, bordered with orange; the ends are tied behind her head, and fall upon her shoulders, which are clothed in a rich, full, violetcoloured jacket. Her petticoat is dull crimson, striped with black. On the other side of the horse, and arranging the harness, stands a peasant-man, whip in hand; he wears a dark fur cap, black velvet jacket, and high black boots. The brilliant colour and harmonious richness of the whole group was inconceivable.

I saw another picture when I was turning into the studio. The morning sky was bright and clear—a shower of sunshine glittering upon the crisp white snow and upon the frosted trees. A young and beautiful peasant-girl, attired in a pink jacket above an indigo-coloured petticoat, and with a brown handkerchief bound tightly across her brow, in the curious fashion worn by the women in Munich, and which leaves the shape of the head gracefully seen, was seated in a pensive attitude upon a huge, heavy, primitive wooden sledge. A lesser sledge, but equally rude, was attached to it; and both were drawn along by a couple of mild, cream-coloured oxen. Rough pieces of timber were heaped up behind the girl, upon the larger sledge. She sat leaning her oval face upon her beautifully rounded hand; she appeared to see nothing around her; her gaze was introverted; the oxen were unguided by hand or voice, and slowly, with bowed heads, proceeded on their way. My eyes followed them along the snowy road, slowly wind