“There!” said Mr. Cole. “That’ll do for this time. Would you like to see it now?” Harry stared at the canvas in bewilderment. The picture wasn’t at all as she had expected to find it. There she sat in a green willow chair, to be sure, and there was the river beyond and the shore beyond that, but the green chair had turned very dark, the river was a radiant, magical blue and the woods on the shore were just a lot of broad blue-green brush-strokes. As for herself--well, it wasn’t finished yet, as the painter reminded her, but if she looked anything like the girl on the canvas she would be happy for ever and ever! And if her hair was anywhere near as beautiful as that golden-red mass she would never be dissatisfied with it again as long as she lived! Mr. Cole watched her amusedly as she stood in rapt contemplation of the picture with the color heightening in her soft cheeks. Perhaps he guessed her thoughts, for: “I’m afraid I haven’t done full justice to my subject,” he said, “but the next sitting will remedy that somewhat. The detail comes later, you know. You’re not disappointed, I trust?” “Disappointed!” breathed Harry. “I think it’s beautiful! Only--only--” she paused, “I suppose artists are like photographers, aren’t they? I mean that they sort of change things to suit themselves?” “Change things? Oh, yes, sometimes; that is, we idealize things. What are you thinking of, the water?” “Yes, and--” “I deepened it a few shades. It throws out the figure, you see. Observe how the white gown stands out against it.” “Ye-es,” said Harry, “and I daresay you have to flatter folks too, don’t you? Idealize them, I mean.” “Sometimes, but not on this occasion,” replied the artist smilingly. Harry gave a gasp. “Do you mean,” she cried, turning to him with wide eyes, “that I really look like that?” “Well, as near as I could do it, young lady, I put you into that picture just as you are. I hope I haven’t made you vain?” But Harry was looking raptly at the picture again. Presently: “Yes, I guess it’s me,” she sighed, coming out of her trance, “for there’s my horrid little snub nose!” “A very interesting nose,” replied the artist. “Not classic, perhaps, but human. And put there, I fancy, for a good purpose.” “What?” asked Harry. “To keep you from getting over-vain,” was the response. “Ah, here come your squires.” The _Pup_ came chugging alongside and Dick gave a hail. Harry and Mr. Cole went to the railing. “Come aboard,” cried the artist. “Hitch your steed and come up, and let’s have your judgment on the picture.” A moment later they were all clustered about the canvas, emitting various exclamations of admiration. It was Chub who finally summed up the sentiments of the three in one terse sentence. “It’s a James Dandy!” he said emphatically. “Do you think--it looks much like me?” asked Harry with elaborate carelessness. Chub grinned at her. “Well, it’s got your nose,” he answered.