Here the door opened, and Mr. Blyth’s head was popped in, surmounted by a ragged straw hat with a sky-blue ribbon round it. “Doctor,” said Valentine, “may I ask an excellent woman, with whom I have made acquaintance, to bring the child here to-morrow morning for you and Mrs. Joyce to see?” “Certainly,” said the good-humored rector, laughing. “The child by all means, and the excellent woman too.” “Not if it’s Miss Florinda Beverley!” interposed Mrs. Joyce (who had read the Circus placard). “Florinda, indeed! Jezebel would be a better name for her!” “My dear Madam, it isn’t Florinda,” cried Valentine, eagerly. “I quite agree with you; her name ought to be Jezebel. And, what’s worse, her legs are out of drawing.” “Mr. Blyth!!!” exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, indignant at this professional criticism on Jezebel’s legs. “Why don’t you tell us at once who the excellent woman is?” cried the doctor, secretly tickled by the allusion which had shocked his wife. “Her name’s Peckover,” said Valentine; “she’s a respectable married woman; she doesn’t ride in the circus at all; and she nursed the poor child by her mother’s own wish.” “We shall be delighted to see her to-morrow,” said the warm-hearted rector--“or, no--stop! Not to-morrow; I shall be out. The day after. Cake and cowslip wine for the deaf and dumb child at twelve o’clock--eh, my dear?” “That’s right! God bless you! you’re always kindness itself,” cried Valentine; “I’ll find out Mrs. Peckover, and let her know. Not a wink of sleep for me to-night--never mind!” Here Valentine suddenly shut the door, then as suddenly opened it again, and added, “I mean to finish that infernal horse-picture to-morrow, and go to the circus again in the evening.” With these words he vanished; and they heard him soon afterwards whistling his favorite “Drops of Brandy,” in the rectory garden. “Cracked! cracked!” cried the doctor. “Dear old Valentine!” “I’m afraid his principles are very loose,” said Mrs. Joyce, whose thoughts still ran on the unlucky professional allusion to Jezebel’s legs. The next morning, when Mr. Blyth presented himself at the stables, and went on with the portrait of the cover-hack, the squire had no longer the slightest reason to complain of the painter’s desire to combine in his work picturesqueness of effect with accuracy of resemblance. Valentine argued no longer about introducing “light and shade,” or “keeping the background subdued in tone.” His thoughts were all with the deaf and dumb child and Mrs. Peckover; and he smudged away recklessly, just as he was told, without once uttering so much as a word of protest. By the evening he had concluded his labor. The squire said it was one of the best portraits of a horse that had ever been taken: to which piece of criticism the writer of the present narrative is bound in common candor to add, that it was also the very worst picture that Mr. Blyth had ever painted.