“Your protege has wonderful talent,” said Mrs. Emory, her interest awakened. “Here is a portrait—merely a face—that of a young girl? Is it that of the artist herself?”
“No, it is not at all like her,” said the old gentleman, looking at it closely. “This is a picture of a young girl, pretty, but thin and weary-looking. Hattie Butler is not only very handsome, but very lady-like. Louisa, you would be proud of her if she were your daughter.”
A look of agony passed over the face of the lady; she turned deathly pale, and for an instant she looked as if she would faint.
A cry of alarm broke from the young people, and Mr. Legare cried out:
“Are you ill, dear sister, are you ill?”
“A spasm. It will soon pass away,” she said, and with a sad smile she tried to still the alarm of her anxious relatives.
“I should like to see this gifted young woman,” she said, after regaining her composure. “Do you think you could induce her to call upon me here? I do not want to go to that bindery; and if she is as proud and independent as you say, it might wound her feelings to have me go unannounced, and without an introduction, to her boarding-house.”
“I will see her when I make a selection of these drawings for purchase, and try and induce her to visit you,” said Mr. Legare.
“Take them all, dear father. They are really very, very fine,” cried Frank, who had been looking them over with unwonted attention for him. “Here is a gem—it is sarcastic, but so true. A foppishly-dressed fellow is leaving his seat in the car, and handing a well-dressed lady into it, while a poor old woman on crutches stands close by. She has eyes, that girl has, and knows how to use them. If I were in your place, father, and had influence with her, I should get her to make art her profession. One who draws so well would soon take to color, even if she has not already tried it.”
“I’ll warrant she paints,” said Lizzie, rather satirically, looking at her brother to see if he would feel the shaft.