Mr. Fairfax had written very urgently asking that the Murray children might be allowed to spend the Christmas holidays with Regie in town. Captain Murray had only given his consent very reluctantly, for he knew the Moorlow Christmas would be a sorry affair without the children; but nevertheless he had given it, and Nan and Harry's respective heads were almost turned with delight at the prospect.
It is doubtful if the liveliest imagination could picture all that a whole week in New York meant to these little Murrays. They had never been there for more than a day at a time, and then only at rare intervals, and it was not strange that stolen whispers in lesson hours, and long chats out of them, all bore upon the delightful subject of this visit, until, in Sister Julia's estimation, the children were devoting too much time to sitting indoors, and plotting and planning, and not enough to out-of-door exercise; so she put her wits to work to devise some scheme to bring about a change of affairs.
“There is one thing, Regie,” she said, “over which your Papa Fairfax will be very much disappointed when he comes home.”
She spoke so seriously, that Regie looked up at her with a very troubled face, which said, as plainly as words, “Whatever do you mean?”
“Why, you haven't a single picture to show him. In all this while not a photograph have you taken.”
“That's so,” with a sigh; “but then I don't believe he'll expect it. You can't do much photographing in cold weather; besides, there's nothing to take in winter.”
“You said once that you'd like to take a good picture of me,” Nan remarked, showing that she did not consider that the low state of the thermometer in any way diminished her charms, as indeed it did not. There was not a prettier or more breezy little specimen of humanity in existence than Nan on one of these wintry afternoons, when she had just, come in from an hour's buffeting with wind and weather on the beach.
“Yes, I would like a good picture of you, Nan,” said Regie, patronisingly, looking at her with his head on one side, after the meditative fashion of an artist regarding his model. “The trouble is, I don't know of any place in this house where you can get a good enough light.”
“And why in the house, pray?” asked Sister Julia; “it is not a bit too cold to try your hand out of doors. This is just a perfect winter's day, and there is no wind to blow, your camera over.”
“That's so,” assented Regie again, “I'm going to get ready,” and suiting the action to the word he bounded out of the room, and the body-guard followed his example.