“But I do ask you. I’ve got to ask you. This is by miles the best thing I’ve ever done and I want to make it as near perfect as I can. Oh, say, Esther; you’ll give me my chance, won’t you? I don’t believe it will take very long.” She hesitated. It seemed cruel to refuse. “We-ll,” she yielded, “if you are sure it won’t? Just a few minutes--” So the posing began. She sat in the wobbly chair, the afternoon sunshine streaming in through the cobwebbed window, while he painted at top speed, chatting all the time. He told of his struggles with his beloved studies, of his hopes and ambitions, and gradually drew her into talking of her own. At last she sprang to her feet. “There!” she cried. “I must _not_ stay another second. It is--oh, good gracious! It is after four now. Where has the time gone?” He shook his head. “_I_ don’t know,” he replied. “Well, there! it isn’t right yet--we must have some more sittings--but it is better. Don’t you think so?” It was better, but even she could see that it was by no means perfect. “Can’t you come to-morrow?” he begged. “No. I don’t see how I can. You see--” “Then the next day. We’ve _got_ to get it right, haven’t we.... If I am going to give you this thing I want it to be as good as I can make it.” She clasped her hands. “You are going to give it to _me_?” she repeated. “Of course I am. I’ll probably want to show it a little first. One of my teachers--oh, he is a corker!--I wish you could see _his_ stuff--has a summer studio in Wapatomac and he must have a look at it, sure. But, after that, it is going to be yours--if you want it.” “Want it! I should love it! But--but I don’t see how it can ever be mine. I live with Uncle Foster and--well, you know.” He frowned. “That’s so,” he admitted. “I suppose there would be the deuce to pay if he knew I painted it for you. Don’t suppose he would want it himself, do you? _I_ needn’t give it to him, but you could.” Her eyes flashed. “Why--why, that would be--it might be just the thing!” she exclaimed. “His birthday is the third of next month and--and I could give it to him as a birthday present, couldn’t I? He says he wants a new photograph of me, and this is ever so much better than a photograph. Of course, as you painted it, and you are a Cook, he might not--” Bob broke in. “It might help to show him that the Cooks are good for something, after all,” he suggested, laughing but eager. “It might--why, by George!--Esther, if we can get it just right, it might help to soften down this family row of ours a little bit. If it did--well, it looks to me as if it were worth trying.” She was by no means confident, but inclination conquered judgment. “Perhaps it might help a little,” she agreed. “But can you finish it in time for Uncle Foster’s birthday?” “Of course I can, and time enough to show to my Wapatomac man, too. But I must have those sittings. You’ll come day after to-morrow, won’t you?”