“I wonder why Peg Woffington said Doctor Johnson had snuff on his shirt-front,” she said to herself, sleepily, “and that his linen wasn’t----” But she didn’t finish the sentence even to herself. She knew it was but a poor mind that dwells upon the weaknesses of great men. CHAPTER XII _I saw these glassy messengers of pain Drench her cheeks damask in a watery rout, Of salty rush and follow. Till one, A Laggard in its sorry chase Gather’d more slowly on the china’s pale curve Where it hung trembling, in a globy dance Its little weight, its anchor._ DREAM LINES. Two or three days passed over without the children seeing anything more of the life of the pictures. They had gone to bed that night after the party, with the promise of a story held out to them, to soften the pang. Yet morning came after morning, and always found them with the usual everyday life. Lessons through the day, walks, and readings aloud in the evenings, and nothing more to reveal that hidden life. Now Clare could almost think it had been a dream. Yet the boys vowed it was real, and Bim had proof of it. [Illustration: _Raeburn._ THE LESLIE BOY.] “Don’t you think there is a deepening of the shadow in the face in the Raeburn in the drawing-room?” said the children’s Father one evening. “The Leslie boy, I mean.” “I think there is,” said their Mother; “it has a glass. Can the dirt get in?” Bimbo listened, and the recollection of a fight with Leslie, came vividly before him. Leslie had a black eye distinctly, and Bim’s fist had blacked it. So how could there be the least doubt that the picture people were alive? They must just wait, they told each other; and so the days passed on. One night Clare heard a sound in the passage. It was that of a silk skirt brushing past the doorway, whispering crisply to the stairs, as its folds swept by. She was out after it in a moment, and saw Miss Woffington pass through the swing-doors on her way to the hall. “They’re about again,” said Clare to herself joyfully, and she flew to the boys’ room. This was empty, and their voices were in the hall. “I’m not going to racket with the children,” she said, “they’ll come directly they know Mrs. Inchbald promised stories; but I wonder where Miss Ross is all this time?” As she passed the drawing-room Clare looked in, and Miss Ross’s frame was empty. “Then I shall see her, and talk to her,” said Clare; “when she speaks she may not look so sorrowful.” She ran swiftly to the far end of the room, where already a small company had assembled. There she found Mrs. Inchbald, Marianne and Amelia, Miss Ross and all the children, and Miss Ridge.