Margaret came in, however, late in the afternoon, all aglow with enthusiasm and delight. “Oh, papa!” she cried, “it will make the most beautiful picture; he has taken it from the east, where you can see the house best, how it is built. I never knew it was so fine before. The tower all round, with that great ivy-tree, and then the side of the house all in shade with the big windows that are shut up, the windows there, you know, papa, that would look out upon the court if you could see through them; and then the gable, and the round turret with the stair in it, and all the little openings. But the sun would not stay in one place,” said Margaret, laughing; “first it sent the shadows one way and then another, and gave Mr. Glen a great deal of trouble. I understand now about shadows,” she added, with a serious air of importance. Sir Ludovic had been getting drowsy again. Her coming woke him entirely, with a little pleased sensation of liveliness which roused his spirits. “Have you been about your picture all this time?” he said. “Yes, papa, out there among the potatoes. You could have seen us from the east window if you had liked to look. And Bell gave us ‘a piece’ at one o’clock, just as she used to do when I was little. Often she would give Rob a piece too-- I mean Mr. Glen,” said Margaret, blushing wildly; “I forgot he was not a boy now.” “My little Peggy,” said Sir Ludovic, looking grave, “there are some things which you ought to be very careful not to forget.” “I did not mean to be rude, papa,” said Margaret, half alarmed; “indeed it was not that: I don’t think I ever could be rude and hurt people’s feelings; indeed he said it himself; he said to Bell, ‘You often gave me my lunch when I was a boy,’ and she said, ‘Ay, Rob Glen, many’s the piece I’ve given you.’ I was rather shocked to hear her,” Margaret acknowledged, “but he only laughed, he was not offended; and so--” “And so you did the same? that was not like my little girl,” said Sir Ludovic; “whatever happens, you must always be civil. So it is a beautiful picture, is it--as good a picture of the old house as of the old man it belongs to? Two old things, my Peggy, that you will miss, that you will like to have pictures of when you go away.” “Papa!”--Margaret looked at him with suddenly dilated eyes--“I am not going away.” “Not till I go first,” he said, with a sigh and a smile. “But that will not be long, that will come sometime; and then, my little Peggy, then--why, you must go too.” Margaret came behind his chair and put her arm round him, and laid down her head on his shoulder. The old man could have cried too. He too was sorry for what was going to happen--very sorry; but he could not help it. He patted the arm that had been thrown round him. “Poor little Peggy, you will miss the old man and the old house. It is well you should have pictures of them,” he said. “I want no pictures now,” cried Margaret, weeping. “Oh, are you ill--are you ill, papa?”