"I have another here, not quite finished either," said he, "which you may perhaps think equally interesting," and he turned round a water-colour drawing. I started as it met my sight; it was Kate Vernon, sitting as was her custom, at the open window of the cottage, her cheek resting on her left hand, showing the graceful contour of her throat, and her right playing as she was wont to do, when lost in thought, with Cormac's ear; while the old hound sat gazing at her as though he would fain ask what vision engrossed her fancy. It was a most lovely picture; the lovelier for its admirable likeness to the original. How well I knew that pensive and abstracted air; the large eyes gazing dreamily into some imaginary world; the delicate, but rosy lips slightly apart; you almost expected to hear them breathe the gentle sigh with which she used to rouse herself from her reverie, and turn to tell you its subject, so truthfully and naturally. "Oh! Winter," I exclaimed, "can love or money induce you to let me take the faintest sketch of this most exquisite picture?"
He looked sharply at me, "No! no! most noble Captain, it was a labour of love, and I'll not have my beautiful pupil's lofty brow, decking the wall of a barrack room. Keep the portrait in your own heart; it may prove a talisman, but I fear the colours will fade as fast as one of Turner's most glowing pictures."
I hardly heard him as I stood; my eyes fixed on the face I was so soon to lose, as if I would stamp its lineaments indelibly on my memory; he went on—"What business would you have with Miss Vernon's likeness?"
"True, true, oh! hard of heart; yet with me it would be a sacred thing. No, do not put it away yet. Oh! skill in portrait painting is the only talent really worth cultivating. I wish to Heaven I had it! Winter, in the whole category of human ills, is there one can surpass the wretchedness of saying good bye?"
"Yes, regret, when too late, that you did not say it. Capitano mio, è meglio sdrucciolar' co' piedi che colla lingua."
The kind little artist was enchanted with the picture I brought him. It was a monk kneeling before an altar, on which the candles were burning, and the light and shade were skilfully disposed; he shook my hand repeatedly, and plunged into a learned disquisition as to the probable master by whom it was painted: he immediately invited the whole party at the Priory to dine with him, in order to discuss fully the important question of placing my gift, which he designated by the name of the giver rather incongruously.
I waited to give Kate "Proverbial Philosophy" till I could find her alone; and returning one morning from a visit to Gilpin, I found the Colonel had disappeared on some behest, and Miss Vernon in solitary possession of the drawing-room; she was working something in a frame, but the open piano proved she had been engaged in her favourite pursuit.
I threw myself into the Colonel's chair, and answered her enquiries for Gilpin; then, after a pause, stood up, and leaning against the mantel piece, said, "Miss Vernon, I met with a book in London I thought would suit you; 'Proverbial Philosophy,' have you seen it? I thought you would like it."