"My father had a friend who was an artist," said Jeanne, breathlessly. "He painted that soon after they were married. For a present, father said. Wasn't it a nice one?"
"Why, I'm delighted to see this, my dear," said her grandfather, gazing eagerly at the lovely face. "It's by far the best picture of Bessie I've ever seen. It is very like her and her face is full of happiness—I'm very glad of that. I had no idea of its existence. I am very glad indeed that you thought of showing it to me."
"So am I," said Jeanne. "You're always so good to me that I'm glad I could give you a pleasure for once."
"You must take very good care of this," said Mr. Huntington. "It's a very fine miniature."
"I always do," returned Jeanne. "I thought it was ever so good of my father to give it to me—the only one he had."
"It was, indeed," said Mr. Huntington, appreciatively. "Now, put it away, my dear, and keep it safe."
In the dining-room, to which the guests had just been ushered by James in his very grandest manner, a lady had leaned forward to say, gushingly, to her hostess:
"What a lovely child your youngest daughter is, Mrs. Huntington. I saw her at dancing school last week and simply fell in love with her. So graceful and such a charming face. She came in with your son."
"Clara is a lovely child," returned Mrs. Huntington, complacently.
"I think," said the guest, "my little son said that her name was Jeannette."