"I want her to take more interest in landscape art, Mr. Lovel," he said, "and I think your daughter's example may inspire her. Miss Lovel seems to me to have a real genius for landscape. I saw some studies of ferns and underwood that she had done at Hale--full of freedom and of feeling. Sophia doesn't draw badly, but she wants feeling." The young lady thus coldly commended gave her head rather a supercilious toss as she replied,-- "You must remember that I have higher duties than sketching, papa," she said; "I cannot devote _all_ my existence to ferns and blackberry-bushes." "O, yes, of course; you've your schools, and that kind of thing; but you might give more time to art than you do, especially if you left the management of the house more to Mrs. Plumptree. I think you waste time and energy upon details." "I hope I know my duty as mistress of a large establishment, papa, and that I shall never feel the responsibility of administering a large income any less than I do at present. It would be a bad thing for you if I became careless of your interests in order to roam about sketching toadstools and blackberry-bushes." Mr. Granger looked as if he were rather doubtful upon this point, but it was evidently wisest not to push the discussion too far. "Will you be so kind as to show us your portfolio, Miss Lovel?" he asked. "Of course she will," answered her father promptly; "she will only be too happy to exhibit her humble performances to Miss Granger. Bring your drawing-book, Clary." Clarissa would have given the world to refuse. A drawing-book is in some measure a silent confidante--almost a journal. She did not know how far her random sketches--some of them mere vagabondage of the pencil, jotted down half unconsciously--might betray the secrets of her inner life to the cold eyes of Miss Granger. "I'd better bring down my finished drawings, papa; those that were mounted for you at Belforet," she said. "Nonsense, child; Mr. Granger wants to see your rough sketches, not those stiff schoolgirl things, which I suppose were finished by your drawing-master. Bring that book you are always scribbling in. The girl has a kind of passion for art," said Mr. Lovel, rather fretfully; "she is seldom without a pencil in her hand. What are you looking for, Clarissa, in that owlish way? There's your book on that table." He pointed to the volume--Clarissa's other self and perpetual companion--the very book she had been sketching in when George Fairfax surprised her by the churchyard wall. There was no help for it, no disobeying that imperious finger of her father's; so she brought the book meekly and laid it open before Sophia Granger.