“That's too bad. But then, it doesn't take up all your time, and it doesn't cause you such an endless deal of worry and discouragement as painting does. You have plenty of time left in which to read, and see your friends, and enjoy life.” “Oh, no, I don't. You have no idea how many miserable little things there are to be done. And we only keep one servant. And she's so stupid that I have to be standing over her all day long. It's like a regular business--almost.” She had thrown a good deal of feeling into these utterances; had emphasized them by bending forward, and lifting her face toward her hearer's; and by this time she was completely out of pose. Didn't she think she'd like to rest a little now? Elias asked. She thought she _would_ like to, for a few minutes, she said; and getting up, she crossed over and looked at Elias's canvas. All she could see were a few straggling charcoal lines. “Oh,” she queried, “is that the way you begin?” “Yes; I must sketch every thing in in black, first.” “But how long will that take?” “That depends upon how often you let me come.” “Well, if you come every Sunday?” “Oh, it will take three or four weeks--may be more.” “And then, how long before the picture will be finished?” “I can't tell exactly; but if we only have one sitting a week, probably not till spring.” “Oh,” she said, and said it with an inflection which Elias construed to be that of disappointment. “Why, did you wish to have it finished earlier?” he asked. “Oh, no; I don't care about that. I wasn't thinking of that,” she answered, but still with an inflection which made Elias feel that her contentment had been disturbed. He wondered whether he had said any thing indiscreet, any thing to hurt or to offend her. He could remember nothing. She resumed her pose. He could not have told what it was, but there was something in her bearing which prompted him to ask: “Is the position uncomfortable?” and to urge: “Don't sit any more to-day, if you would rather not.” “Oh, no; the position isn't uncomfortable. I'd just as soon sit,” was her reply, in the same unhappy tone of voice. Now, what could the matter be? What had happened to annoy her? “Please, Miss Redwood,” Elias pleaded, “please be frank with me. Perhaps I am keeping you from something?” Her eyes were fixed dreamily upon the window-pane behind his shoulder. “I was only thinking,” she confessed in a slow, pensive manner, “of what a beautiful day it is, and that”--She stopped herself. “And that--” “That's all. Nothing else.” “Oh, yes, there was. Please tell me. And that--?” “And that--now the winter is upon us--that we shan't have many more like it. There.” “Ah, I see! And you were longing to be out of doors, enjoying it. No wonder.” She colored up and began protesting. “Oh, really, Mr. Bacharach; no, indeed--”