Mrs. Brande could hardly believe her eyes when an hour later she came into the verandah, in some trepidation, to see what made Sweet so quiet, and discovered the “little blister,” as she mentally called her, seated demurely on a chair, as rigid and motionless as a statue. “See, I’m having my picture took,” she chirped out. “But I must not move. Please look how far he has got,” nodding towards Mark, who was painting away steadily, though rather embarrassed by the loss of the use of his left arm. Mrs. Brande and Honor went over to examine the portrait, expecting to see a feeble little outline, something done just for good nature, and to keep the child quiet. But they almost started, as their eyes fell on a roughly sketched-in head--the living, breathing face of Sweet, looking at them from the canvas, with her best--in short, her “angel” expression. “Well, I never! Why--you are a regular artist!” gasped Mrs. Brande at last. “A very irregular one,” he answered with a laugh. “I have not painted a portrait for more than a year. Of course I have, like every one who comes up, and can hold a brush or pencil, attempted the snows! But my snows are simply like a row of blobs of cotton wool. I cannot do landscapes, though I am pretty good at faces and animals.” “I should rather think you _were_,” said Mrs. Brande, emphatically. “Is it pretty?” called out the model imperiously. “Is it pretty, like me?” “Who said you were pretty?” demanded Mrs. Brande. “Every one says, ‘Oh, what a pretty little girl!’” “It is much too nice for you, I can tell you that.” To Mark, “It is wonderful. Why, you could make your fortune as a portrait painter!” “So I have been told, perhaps because there is no chance of my ever putting the advice into practice. I can catch the likeness, and make the picture resemble my sitter, but I cannot finish. After a certain point, if I go on, I spoil the whole thing.” “Oh, please,” whined a small voice in acute agony, “don’t spoil _me_!” “No need, you are quite spoiled enough,” rejoined the artist with unusual emphasis. “Why did you never let us know of this talent, Mark? What a pleasure to your friends,” said Mrs. Brande, leaning heavily on his chair. “I wish you would make a little tiny sketch--of--Ben?” “No sooner said than done. I must leave this to dry for to-day, so call up the next victim; I have another block ready. Ben, old man, I am going to hand you down to posterity.” Ben did not make half as good a model as Sweet, probably because he had not one atom of personal vanity. Every now and then he disturbed his “pose” by dashing at some mocking little devil of a squirrel, who peeped through the trellis-work, and dared him to do his worst! He dared, and it invariably came to nothing. How the morning had flown! When “P.” appeared at two o’clock, his wife rushed at him with two pictures--a sketch of Sweet, and a half-worked-in outline of Ben, to the life.