CHAPTER II
THE MINIATURE
“What makes you keep looking at me, Eleanor Merritt? You’re not a bit of a good model!”
Thus reproved, Eleanor once more fixed her eyes upon a very bad oil-portrait of Great-grandfather Burtwell, an elderly man of a wooden countenance, in stock and choker, surmounting an expanse of black broadcloth which occupied two-thirds of the canvas.
The girls were established in what was known as the spare-room of the Burtwell house, which, with its north light and usual freedom from visitors made a very good studio. Madge was painting a miniature of Eleanor. The diminutive size of her undertaking was causing her a good deal of embarrassment, and she was consequently 87 inclined to be rather severe with her sitter.
“You know I am not going to have many more chances of looking at you for a year to come,” Eleanor urged, in a tone of meek dejection.
“And I can’t see you, even now,” Madge persisted, “if you don’t turn more toward the light.”
There was silence again for some minutes, while Madge painted steadily on. Difficult as was this new task which she had set herself, she was captivated with it. However the miniature might turn out as a likeness, she felt sure that each stroke of her brush was making a prettier picture of it. The eyes already had the real Eleanor look, and the hair was “pretty nice.” The mouth was troublesome, to be sure, and to-day she did not feel inspired to improve it, and had turned her attention to less important details.