That night Edgar dreamed that Flora, who had been buried a few weeks, and of whose image his picture was the exact resemblance, stood before him, pleading him to have pity on her lonely mother—he dreamed her hand clasped his, and he awoke trembling.
He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him about the picture.
The Monday morning came, and with it the portrait of Flora, which had been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvas.
The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the passengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by a pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna alighted, and were followed by a servant, who took the safely cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board the ship. They soon met the mother of Flora, and Anna took the picture and presented it to her, and promised to care for the rose buds which bloomed at Flora’s grave. Mr. H received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian widow, and her aged father, and to care for the valued picture of Flora. Thanks and farewells closed the scene, when Anna, with her father, returned home. There she found a note from Edgar, the artist, requesting permission to call on Anna that evening. She wrote a reply, saying that a previous engagement would forbid her complying with his request, at the same time enclosing a check for $200, saying, “My father requests me to forward this check to you, in payment for the portrait of Flora Revere”
We’ve no abiding city
This may distress the worldling’s mind,
But should not cost the saint a tear,
Who hopes a better rest to find.
We’ve no abiding city
We seek a city out of sight,
Zion its name: the Lord is there:
It shines with everlasting light.
Hush, my soul, nor dare repine;
The time my God appoints is best;
While here to do his will be mine,
And his to fix my time of rest.