“But I must have you notwithstanding, young fisher-boy,” said the lady. “You must come back after breakfast and hold one of those fish in your hand; I have only made the outline, and the drawing will not be perfect until it is well coloured.”
“He does not understand the honour that has been done him,” observed an elderly dame to the fair artist; “still he looks intelligent, and perhaps when he sees himself on paper he will be better pleased than he appears to be at present.”
Dermot scarcely understood all that was said, for though he spoke English very fairly, he could not comprehend the language when spoken rapidly.
Breakfast being concluded, he was again summoned to the hall, and to his utter astonishment he was made to stand with the fish in his hand, while the young lady continued her sketch. As a reward she exhibited it to him when it was finished. He blushed when he saw himself, for she was no mean artist, and she had done him ample justice. Indeed he looked far more like the Earl’s son, dressed in a fisher-boy’s costume, than what he really was.
“Could my mother see that picture?” he asked at length, “I am sure she would like it, she knows more about those things than I do, for I have never seen anything of that sort before.”
“What! Have you never seen a picture before?” exclaimed the young lady in surprise, “nor a print, nor a painting?”
Dermot shook his head—“No, nothing of the sort. I did not think that anything so like life could be put on paper.”
“Cannot you read?” asked the lady.
“No,” said Dermot, “I have no book. The priest can read, but there are few people else in this part of the country who can do so.”
“Oh! you must be taught to read, then,” exclaimed the young lady. “It is a pity that you should be so ignorant. Would you not like to learn?”