“This way, if you please,” said Mr. Cole, holding open the studio door. They all trooped in and Harry gave a little cry of surprise and delight. On the easel, with a broad shaft of sunlight across it, stood a small canvas. The others echoed Harry’s exclamation. For there were two Harrys present, one gazing with shining eyes at the canvas, and one gazing smilingly back at her. Mr. Cole had copied the head and shoulders from the sketch for which Harry had posed, and in the lower right-hand corner were painted the words “To Harriet Emery with the artist’s homage.” Then followed the date and the signature: “F. Cole,” and for once Harry didn’t mind being called Harriet.
“Oh, it’s—it’s lovely!” she sighed. “Do you—do you really mean that it’s for me?”
“I really do,” answered Mr. Cole. “But there’s a string to it.”
“Wh-what?” faltered Harry anxiously.
“You’ll have to leave it with me until to-morrow at least, for I only finished it an hour ago and the paint is still wet.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” she answered vastly relieved. “And—and I can’t tell you how much I thank you.” Then, in spite of the fact that she had been sixteen for several hours, which, as every one knows, is quite grown up, she impulsively threw her arms about the artist and hugged him. And Mr. Cole stood it beautifully!
“And now,” cried Harry, blushing a little, “I’ve got something to show you all. Look! You take it, Roy.”
She held out the folded paper which she had kept tightly clutched in her hand and Roy took it. He looked it over.
“Shall I read it?” he asked.