"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, you _do_ frighten me when you swear so. I _will_ keep still: I will, reely. I won’t fidget or move or talk—I won’t even breathe—for a ’ole ten minnits. On’y I must tell you about me an’ my sister an’ the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, ’cos it was washin’ day, an’—— ... Ow, now you’re angry, Mr. Baffin. Down’t be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an’ I _will_ keep still: an’ Gawd knows what’s to become of me when my mother dies, an’ everybody ’ates me, an’ I _am_ un’eppy." The remainder of Prudence’s observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs. Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I’ll wait," he said, "until you are dry again." "Down’t be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I’ll be a good gel now—I will, reely—if on’y yew wown’t be engry with me." "Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I ’m not angry with you _any_ more, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I’ll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up." So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up—for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her. "It’ll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I’m gownter give my muvver something _sow_ nice fur Christmas’ I’m gownter give ’er a—— Ow, Mr. Baffin, you’re angry with me agen. I _am_ a bad gel, I know I am; but——" "You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I’ve got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?" "I got two guineas comin’ to _me_ fur Christmas—per’aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur ’is ’Birth of Wonder,’ an’ when ’e sells it ’e is gointer gimme two guineas!" Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry—Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show. "I shouldn’t count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?" "Ow, _ever_ so lung!" answered Prudence. "Down’t know why ’tis, I’m sure, on’y I down’t seem to be able to get now sittin’s _now_’ow. They all say I’m pretty an’ that; an’ they all rave about me neck: an’ they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can’t make it out at _all_, I can’t?" "You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin. "Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.