“If you please, ma'am, I was to give it him myself.” Henry recognized the voice, opened the door, and invited her in. Mrs. Little followed her, full of suppressed curiosity. This put Jael out, but she was too patient to show it. “It is the bust,” said she; and put it softly down on the table with her strong arms. Henry groaned. “She despises even that; she flings it at my head without a word.” “Nay; I have got a note for you.” “Then why didn't you give it me at once?” cried Henry impatiently. She handed him the note without a word. It ran thus: “Miss Carden presents her compliments to Mr. Little, and sends him his beautiful bust. She is grieved that he will accept no remuneration for his lessons; and begs permission to offer her best wishes for his happiness and prosperity.” The gentleness of this disarmed Henry, and at the same time the firmness crushed him. “It is all over!” he cried, despairingly: “and yet I can't hate her.” He ran from the room, unable to restrain his tears, and too proud and fiery to endure two spectators of his grief. Mrs. Little felt as mothers feel toward those who wound their young. “Is it the woman's likeness?” said she bitterly, and then trembled with emotion. “Ay.” “May I see it?” “Surely, ma'am.” And Jael began to undo the paper. But Mrs. Little stopped her. “No, not yet. I couldn't bear the sight of a face that has brought misery upon him. I would rather look at yours. It is a very honest one. May I inquire your name?” “Jael Dence--at your service.” “Dence! ah, then no wonder you have a good face: a Cairnhope face. My child, you remind me of days gone by. Come and see me again, will you? Then I shall be more able to talk to you quietly.” “Ay, that I will, ma'am.” And Jael colored all over with surprise, and such undisguised pleasure that Mrs. Little kissed her at parting. She had been gone a considerable time, when Henry came back; he found his mother seated at the table, eying his masterpiece with stern and bitter scrutiny. It was a picture, those two rare faces in such close opposition. The carved face seemed alive; but the living face seemed inspired, and to explore the other to the bottom with merciless severity. At such work the great female eye is almost terrible in its power. “It is lovely,” said she. “It seems noble. I can not find what I know must be there. Oh, why does God give such a face as this to a fool?” “Not a word against her,” said Henry. “She is as wise, and as noble, and as good, as she is beautiful. She has but one fault; she loves another man. Put her sweet face away; hide it from me till I am an old man, and can bring it out to show young folks why I lived and die a bachelor. Good-by, dear mother, I must saddle Black Harry, and away to my night's work.”