“See, mamma,” entreated the little one. “So many dandeyions! Annie make house for dee papa!” The mother stooped to kiss her; a tear splashed upon the mass of wilting golden disks packed into papa’s treasure chamber. At the same age Hester had prattled of “dee papa,” and was his faithful shadow wherever he would allow her to follow. He had been too busy of late years and too distraught by various anxieties to take much notice of the younger children, but he had made a pet of little Hester. He used to call her “Lassie with glory crowned,” as he twined and burnished her sunny curls around his fingers. Annie was a loving little darling, but neither so sprightly nor so beautiful as her first-born at the same age. She worshiped her father, and he was beginning to recognize and be pleased by her preference. “Poor Percy!” “Papa sick?” asked the child, startled by the ejaculation. “No, my darling. Papa is very well. Mamma is only sorry! sorry! _sorry!_” “Sorry! sorry! _sorry!_ Mamma sorry! sorry! _sorry!_” While she crammed the yellow flowers into the castle, the baby made the words into a song, catching intonation and emphasis as they had escaped her mother’s lips. Dandelions dying were as fair to her as dandelions golden-crisp in the meadow grass. A drop of blood, red from the heart, would mean no more than a coral bead. At three o’clock, Hester’s chair was drawn by Homer into the orchard. The painter, his sister, his dog, and his easel were already in place. March had sketched in the arbor, and indicated the figures sufficiently to reveal the purpose of the picture. Blossom-time is short, but fortunately the weather that week was phenomenally equable for May. In eight days the painting was finished. The reader may have noticed it at the Academy exhibition the next winter, where it was catalogued as “The Defense.” Hetty’s portrait and pose were admirably rendered, and the bound of the big St. Bernard was fiercely spirited. But the wonder of the group was the occupant of the low wicker carriage. “My baby daughter!” faltered Mrs. Wayt, on first seeing it, and no more words would come. To herself and to March, later and confidentially, Hetty spoke of it as “Hester glorified.” At times, she was almost afraid to look at it. It was the face of an infant, but an infant whose soul had outleaped the limitations of years. The filmy gold of her hair lay, cloudlike, about her, her perfectly molded hands were clasped in the fearless delight of ignorance as she leaned forward to welcome the enemy her custodian was ready to beat off. It was Hester in every lineament. Even the baby knew it. But it was Hester as her brothers and sisters would never see her unless among the fadeless blossoms of the world where crooked things will be made straight.