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Rh Algerines. It would do him all the good in the world." Helen Morland's picture was placed in the best light. The young painter had done his loveliest. It was that of a child; her eyes, full of poetry and of light, gazing upwards on a star, which seemed mirrored in their depths with that earnest and melancholy expression so touching in childhood—perhaps because our own heart gives a tone of prophecy to its sadness. The hair hung in dark, clustering ringlets, parted on a forehead, "Do you not observe in this picture a likeness to Miss Arundel?" said Lorraine. "Nay," replied Emily, "do not at once put a stop to the admiration I was going to express. What I was about to say of the portrait, I must now say of the painting, with which I am enchanted." "And you think very rightly," returned Mr. Morland: "M'Clise is an exquisite painter: he has a fine perception of the beautiful, and a natural delicacy of feeling, which always communicates itself to the taste. I could wish him to illustrate the poetry of actual life—the grace, the beauty, which is seen so often—and with