"What _is_ she like, you mean. She is still in the land of the living. _Describe_ her I don't believe I could," says my companion, with a light laugh. "If I gave you her exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew rapturous over a description? If you cross-examine me about her charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It is _there_, without one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable something that is perfection." "You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout. "She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me---" Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, "By the bye," he says, "what may I call you? Miss Vernon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest." "Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like." "Thank you; I shall like it very much. _Apropos_ of photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit for your portrait?" He is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of photographing me upon his brain without further loss of time. "Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"--diffidently--"_ you_ would like one?" "_Like_ it!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?" "Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me." "What happened to the eyes?" "There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way I always looked, but I don't think so myself. _You_ don't think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?" Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inquiry. "No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety of any sort seems good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production. "What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. "It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting." Having told me the hour, he says: "Have you no watch, Phyllis?" "No."