“Mr. Legare wishes to make some inquiry of you, Miss Hattie,” said Mr. W——. “Take a seat. I will leave you with him.”
“Not so, my dear sir—remain,” said Mr. Legare, promptly. “I have no questions to ask of this young lady which you should not hear. I found a drawing in this book, and I am very anxious to know who made the sketch. It is an illustration of Martin Luther’s Dream.”
A slight flush arose on Hattie’s cheek when he opened the book and pointed to the pencil sketch.
“I meant no wrong, sir,” she said; “it was a careless fancy, done in a few moments in our dinner hour, when we are at rest to eat or exercise as we please. I had read the dream, had my pencil in my pocket, saw the blank page, and made the sketch without a thought that any one would ever notice it. I often draw little fancies like that when I have nothing else to do. I have a portfolio of them at my room.”
“I will buy every one of them at your own price, young lady. I conceive myself to be a connoisseur in art, and I assure you that you draw like a master. You have talent, great talent.”
“Really, sir, I fear you put too high an estimate on my poor efforts. I once took a few lessons when I was with my dear mother, but the crabbed Italian who taught me said my fingers were stiff, and I had no eye for lines of grace.”
“He was a fool. Those angels almost speak in real life-likeness. I must see your portfolio and have the first privilege of purchasing if any or all of your drawings are for sale.”
“I hardly think, sir, they are of any value. But I will bring my portfolio here to-morrow, and leave it with Mr. W——, so that you can look it through at your leisure.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Have you anything further to say, sir? I am in a hurry; a part of the work I am now collating is on the sewing-bench, and the sewers will want the rest.”