“And so you ought to be,” said Margaret. “An amateur means a lover, a true lover, doesn’t it? I mean of pictures, you know,” she added, with her usual blush. “And if you do anything for love, it is sure to be better than what you do for--any other reason--for money. Could anybody paint a real beautiful picture for money? No,” cried the daring young theorist, “it must be for love.” “I think so too,” said Rob. He reddened also, but with more conscious sentiment. “I think so too! and if I paint Earl’s-hall, it will be so.” “Will you?” said Margaret, grateful and happy. Love of her was not what the girl was thinking of; nothing was farther from her mind, nor did it ever occur to her that the word had other meanings than that she gave it. Then she pushed the portfolio away from her, and changed the subject in a moment. “You cannot begin to make the picture, Mr. Glen; what shall we do now? Will I show you the house?” said Margaret, with her Scotch imperfection of grammar, “or will you begin me with the straight lines, or will you (that would be the best) draw something and let me watch. Draw papa! I will open the door, look, like this; and he never stirs, I know he will never stir for an hour at a time. Oh, that is the thing I should like you to do. Draw papa!” Her voice sank into a softer cadence, not to disturb Sir Ludovic; but her face was more eager than ever. She put the door open, showing like a picture the other room within: the background of books in many tones of subdued color, with gleams of old gilding, giving a russet edge of light here and there. In the midst of the scene thus disclosed sat Sir Ludovic, his head, with its silver locks, leaning back upon his high chair. “I cannot draw the figure,” Rob had said, with anxiety and alarm, feeling the task too much for him; but, after all, when he looked again there was not much of the figure visible. The wide old velvet coat was folded over the old student-sleepers’ knees; only his cheek was visible, still perfect in its fine oval, and the outline of his noble old head against the dark leather of the chair. It was a study of still life, not a portrait, that was wanted. Rob looked at the “subject” thus proposed to him, and Margaret looked at him with great anxiety, to see in his face what he was going to do. Would he consent? Would he refuse to her this thing, which, now that she had proposed it, she felt that she wanted more than anything else in the world? Recklessly Margaret threw herself “under obligations” to the young man. “Oh, if you please, do it!” she cried, in a half whisper, putting her two pretty hands together in a pretty, spontaneous gesture of supplication. How could Rob resist, whose first desire was to please her, and to whom in pleasing her so many soft brightnesses of pleasure to himself opened up? Even without that motive, to do him justice, he would have been melted by her entreaty--he would have been proud to do anything for her.