Both were mute,--he in the warmth of his youthful artistic enthusiasm, she with expectation.
Suddenly the shrill tinkle of a bell broke the quiet. "That is the dinner-bell!" the little girl exclaimed, springing up with an impatient shrug. She knew that there could be no more pleasure and liberty for her; she would be missed, looked for, and found.
"I must go home," she cried. "Have you finished it?"
"Very nearly, yes."
She ran and looked over his shoulder, breathless with astonishment at what she saw upon the gray paper,--a little girl in a very short, faded gown, and long red stockings, also much faded, a very slender figure, a little round face, a delicate little nose, two grave bright eyes that looked out into the world with a startled expression, a short upper lip, a round chin, a very fair skin, and shining reddish-brown hair which waved long and silky about the narrow childish shoulders and was tied at the back of the head with a blue ribbon.
He had unfastened the sketch from the portfolio, and she held it in her hands, examining it narrowly. "Is it like?" she asked, and then, looking down at herself, she added, "The gown is like, and the stockings are like, but the face,--is that like?" She looked up at him eagerly.
"I cannot do it any better," he replied, rather ambiguously.
"Oh, you must not be vexed," she made haste to say. "I only wanted to know if--how can I tell--if--well, it looks too pretty to me, this picture of yours."
He gave her a comical side-glance. "Every artist must flatter a little if he wishes to please a lady," was his reply.
"And you give me the picture?" she asked, shyly, after a little pause.