"Logically concluded. To resume: the room was gloomy, but the open window gave a sense of space, and admitted the light, high and serene, of a pale evening sky. The book lay open on the lap of her who read, one hand rested upon its pages; the other supported her cheek; the eyes were rapt and thoughtful; the silent lips met and closed with a charming and austere grace; the attitude was meditative, even down to the garment's quiet and gathered folds. The slender figure told of early youth, but there was the calmness of an immortal spirit on the brow, and something beyond time in the bearing and the mien. I remembered the Greek's meditating muse, and Corregio's divine Magdalen reading in the wilderness, and I thought though Pagan times be gone and art may have lost her early faith, she still can tell the story of earnest spirits that live and move within the shadow of our own homes, yet ever seem to dwell serene in their own heights. That is the subject, Daisy, and there is a speech for you." "Is that all, Cornelius?" "All. It will stand in the catalogue, as 'A Young Girl Reading,' and many, unable to see more in it, will give a brief look and pass on. If a few linger near, even though they scarcely know why; if to them it embodies thought, meditation, or some such thing, I am satisfied. Daisy. Well, what do you think of it?" "Nothing for the present; I am thinking whether Jane will do." "What for?" he asked promptly. "To sit for you. She is very pretty, you know." "And she looks very meditative, with her bright black eyes ever open, and her cherry lips ever parted." "I wish you had seen Miss Lindley. She is tall, graceful, and dresses with so much taste. Then she has a pale olive face, and looks very lady- like." "And a lady-like Meditation--who dresses well too--would be the very thing." "But Cornelius," I said, rather perplexed, "how will you manage? I can do for the figure pretty well, I dare say, but the face?" He gave me an odd look, and answered: "Yes, there is a puzzle." "How thoughtless of you." "Very." "Then how will you manage?" "Really," he said, turning round to confront me, "is it possible you do not guess whose face I want, Daisy?" "Mine!" I exclaimed, much astonished. "Yes, yours," he replied, taking my hand in his. "I once saw you reading--" "Sewing, Cornelius." "No [!] reading--do you think I never looked at you but that one time?-- and I liked it, for I saw it would make a very charming picture. The attitude is one in which you often fall unconsciously--simple, true, and graceful. I like it. I like, too, the exquisite colour of your hair, and the meditative light of your gray eyes. Dark eyes may be for passion; blue, for love and sweetness; gray, less beautiful, perhaps, but also less earthly, are for meditation and spiritual thought." "And the meaning of hazel eyes?" I said, looking up at his.