“Perhaps it’s only the name of the artist who painted it. I should think the date was right, by the costume. Are you fond of miniatures? I have a splendid collection in one of the rooms upstairs. I will show you them to-morrow, if you like.” “Thank you. I don’t know that I do care for them so very much. But I like that one. The face is an interesting one.” “I think they used to flatter the sitter a little in the days when people had themselves painted like that,” said Mr. Bradfield. “I daresay, now, an artist of those days would have done the fairy’s trick, and transformed the beast into a prince. And now, will you let us have that song from ‘Utopia’ once more before Mrs. Abercarne carries you off?” Chris rose at once, returned him his keys, and went to the piano. She sang the song he had asked for, received Mr. Bradfield’s enthusiastic thanks, and noticed that he seemed in higher spirits than he had been all the evening. He gave Mrs. Abercarne her candle, bowed her out of the room, and contrived to detain Chris a moment longer. “We must absolutely find you that sweetheart,” said he, in a low voice, and in rather wistful tones. “You will be dull in this outlandish place without one.” “You must absolutely leave me to do as I like about that, Mr. Bradfield,” replied Chris, saucily. “And I am never dull anywhere.” “I wish I could say the same of myself,” said he, heartily. And then he let her go, wishing her good-night with some constraint, which she, used to admiration from young and old, did not fail to notice. She ran upstairs, and joined her mother at the door of their room. Mrs. Abercarne looked at the girl as soon as they got inside the door. “What was Mr. Bradfield saying to you, Chris?” she asked, with apparent indifference, as she took from her head the scrap of old point lace which she thought proper to wear by way of a cap. “Oh, he said he must get me a sweetheart, and I told him he might save himself the trouble,” said she, lightly. “Don’t you think it very silly of him to say those things to me, mother?” Mrs. Abercarne paused a moment, and then answered, thoughtfully: “I think he means to be kind. He always speaks as if he took an interest in you--a great interest.” Chris glanced quickly at her mother. “An interest! Oh, yes,” said she. Then there was another short silence, during which Chris knelt in front of the fireplace and stared intently at the red coals. “You don’t seem very grateful, dear!” The girl started. “Grateful! I? What for?” she asked stupidly. “Why, Chris, you are in the clouds! What, were you thinking about Mr. Bradfield?” “Mr. Bradfield!” echoed the young girl, with a laugh of derision. “No, mother; I was thinking about that face in the miniature.” Her mother laughed, rather contemptuously.