“Always busy at your drawing, Edwin?” said his elder brother Henry, as he entered the school-room one morning.
Edwin looked up for a moment with a smile, and then went on tracing with evident pleasure the outline of a face. His brother came behind him, and looked over his shoulder; Edwin listened for his remarks, though without ceasing to draw.
“You are taking pains, I see,” said Henry at last in a kindly tone; “but I am afraid that you will have to use your india-rubber here, and here; these lines, you may perceive, are not in good drawing.”
“I don’t see much wrong in them,” replied Edwin, suspending his pencil, with something of vexation in his tone, for he had expected nothing but praise.
“If you compare them with your study, you will perceive that all this outline is incorrect. Where is the study?” asked Henry, looking in vain for it on the table.
“Oh, it’s somewhere up-stairs,” said Edwin. “I remember very well what it is like, and can go on without looking at it every minute.”
“Would you oblige me by bringing it?” said his brother.
Edwin went up-stairs, rather unwillingly, and soon brought down a beautiful study; a face most perfect in form and expression.
Henry silently put the two pictures together. Edwin gazed with bitter disappointment on his own copy, which but a few minutes before he had thought so good.