"It is perfect," said Rose, delightedly; "it is Charley's own self; he is a pretty boy," said the proud mother, looking alternately from him to the picture.
"You must remember," said Gertrude, "that of all the different expressions of a loved face, which the heart has daguerreotyped, the artist can catch but one, and that one may not always be to friends the favorite expression; hence you see, with all our good intentions, the craft sometimes labor to disadvantage. However, I seldom paint portraits; my forte is 'still life;' so, of course," she added, laughing; "your mercurial little Charley was quite out of my orbit, but thanks to flowers and lump-sugar, I think I may say there is his double."
"A mother's eye sees no flaw in it," said Rose.
"Thank you," said Gertrude, with a gratified smile. "It has already found a purchaser. A gentleman who was in my studio this morning thought it a fancy sketch, and would not believe me when I told him that there was a beautiful living type; he offered me a sum for it that would at one time have made my heart leap; I can afford to refuse it now."
"How early did your artistic talent develop itself?" asked Rose.
"I was always fond of pictures," replied Gertrude; "but the 'talent' which prosperity 'folded in a napkin,' the rough hand of adversity shook out."
"Adversity?" repeated the astonished Rose, looking at Gertrude's sunny face.
"You are skeptical," said Gertrude. "I forgive you, but I have learned not to wear my heart dangling like a lady's chatelaine at my girdle, to be plucked at by every idle, curious, or malicious hand.
"Listen!" And she drew her chair nearer to Rose.