"Yourself."
"Then it is a looking-glass," said Anne, blushing. "A valuable piece of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"
"No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart's, and which I prize above everything."
"You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures are prized. The moderns have no reputation."
"You will always jest. I assure you I am serious," said Pownal, who, however, was obliged to smile.
"I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my ignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking round for something to compare it to, "as the tongs."
"Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and flowers were inviting you to join them."
"Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours."
"Or as my absence will be to me in New York."
"I wonder how you," said Anne, "who are accustomed to the bustle and excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony of a country town."