“The Abdication of Charles V., Miss Martin,” said he, proudly. “This is the fourteenth time I have depicted it; and never, I am bound to say, with more favorable 'studies.' Your uncle is fine; my Lady gorgeous; I don't say what I 'd like of another lovely and gifted individual; but even down to that old rogue of a butler that would insist on taking snuff through the bars of his helmet, they were all grand, miss,--positively grand!” Seeing that she appeared to bestow some attention to him, Mr. Crow went on: “You see, miss, in the beginning of a great effort of this kind there is no progress made at all. The sitters keep staring at one another, each amused at some apparent absurdity in costume or attitude; and then, if you ask them to call up a look of love, hate, jealousy, or the like, it's a grin you get,--a grin that would shame a hyena. By degrees, however, they grow used to the situation; they 'tone down,' as one might say, and learn to think less of themselves, and be more natural. It was sheer fatigue, downright exhaustion, and nothing else, was making your uncle so fine; and if he could have been kept on low diet,--I did n't like to mention it, though I often wished it,--I 'd have got a look of cadaverous madness into his face that would have astonished you.” By this time Mr. Crow had approached his canvas, and was working away vigorously, the action of his brush appearing to stimulate his loquacity. Mary drew near to observe him, and insensibly felt attracted by that fascination which the progress of a picture invariably possesses. “This is the Queen,” continued he; “she's crying,--as well she might; she doesn't rightly know whether the old fellow's out of his mind or not; she has her misgivings, and she does n't half like that old thief of a Jesuit that's whispering in the King's ear. This was to be you, Miss Martin; you were betrothed to one of the young princes; but somehow you weren't quite right in your head, and you are looking on rather more amused, you perceive, than in any way moved; you were holding up your beautiful petticoat, all covered with gold and precious stones, as much as to say, 'Ain't I fine this morning?' when you heard the herald's trumpet announce the Prince of Orange; and there he is,--or there he ought to be,--coming in at the door. There's a chap pulling the curtain aside; but I suppose, now,” added he, with a sigh, “we 'll never see the Prince there!” “But where could you have found a study for your Prince, Mr. Crow?”