over the sketch Rosalind had been making of the lake on that eventful afternoon which had begun their intercourse. It was a very bad sketch, and Rosalind knew it. That golden sheet of water, full of light, full of reflections, with the sun blazing upon it, and the hills rising up on every side, and the sky looking down into its depths, had become a piece of yellow mud with daubs of blue and brown here and there, and the reeds in the foreground looked as if they had been cut out of paper and pasted on. “Don’t look at it. I can’t do very much, but yet I can do better than that,” she had said, finding him in rapt contemplation of her unsatisfactory performance, and putting out her hand to close the book. He looked up at her, for he was seated by the table, hanging over the sketch with rapture, with the most eager deprecation. “I think it is lovely,” he said; “don’t try to take away my enjoyment. I wonder how any one can turn a mere piece of paper into a picture!” “You are laughing at me,” said Rosalind, with a little offence. “I--laughing! I would as soon laugh in church. I think it is beautiful. I can’t imagine how you do it. Why, there are the reflections in the water just as you see them. I never thought before that it was so pretty.” “Oh!” Rosalind cried, drawing a long breath. It hurt her that he should say so, and it hurt still more to think that he was endeavoring to please her by saying so. “I am sure it is your kindness that makes you praise it; but, Mr. Everard, you must know that I am not quite ignorant. When you say such things of this daub it sounds like contempt--as if you thought I did not know better.” “But suppose I don’t know any better?” he said, looking up at her with lustrous eyes full of humility, without even his usual self-disgust at having said something wrong. “Indeed, you must believe me, I don’t. It is quite true. Is it a fault, Miss Trevanion, when one does not know?” What could Rosalind say? She stood with her hand put out towards the book, looking down upon the most expressive countenance, a face which of itself was a model for a painter. There was very little difference between them in age, perhaps a year or so to his advantage, not more; and something of the freemasonry of youth was between them, besides the more delicate link of sentiment. Yes, she said to herself, it was a fault. A man, a gentleman, should not be so ignorant. Something must be wrong before such ignorance could be. But how say this or anything like it to her companion, who threw himself so entirely upon her mercy? She closed the book that had been open before him and drew it hastily away. “I am afraid,” she said, “your eye is not good; of course it is no fault except to think that _I_ could be so silly, that I could accept praise which I don’t deserve.” “Ah!” he said, “I see what you mean. You despise me for my ignorance, and it is true I am quite ignorant; but then how could I help it? I have never been taught.”