second thoughts, I don't believe you will, for your portrait wouldn't be
half good enough; however, it will be near enough for you.

Well, the baron's daughter, being all your fancy painted her and a
trifle more, was naturally much distressed at the goings-on of her
unamiable parent, and tried her best to make amends for her father's
harshness. She generally managed that a good many pounds of the sausage
should find their way back to the owners of the original pig; and when
the baron tried to squeeze the hand of the pretty parlor-maid, which he
occasionally did after dinner, Bertha had only to say, in a tone of
mild remonstrance, "Pa!" and he dropped the hand instantly and stared
very hard the other way.

Bad as this disreputable old baron was, he had a respect for the
goodness and purity of his child. Like the lion tamed by the charm of
Una's innocence, the rough old rascal seemed to lose in her presence
half his rudeness, and, though he used awful language to her sometimes
(I dare say even Una's lion roared occasionally), he was more tractable
with her than with any other living being. Her presence operated as a
moral restraint upon him, which, possibly, was the reason that he never
stayed down-stairs after dinner, but always retired to a favorite
turret, which, I regret to say, he had got so in the way of doing every
afternoon that I believe he would have felt unwell without it.

The hour of the baron's afternoon symposium was the time selected by
Bertha for her errands of charity. Once he was fairly settled down to
his second bottle, off went Bertha, with her maid beside her carrying a
basket, to bestow a meal on some of the poor tenants, among whom she was
always received with blessings.

At first these excursions had been undertaken principally from
charitable motives, and Bertha thought herself plentifully repaid in the
love and thanks of her grateful pensioners.

Of late, however, another cause had led her to take even stronger
interest in her walks, and occasionally to come in with brighter eyes
and a rosier cheek than the gratitude of the poor tenants had been wont
to produce.

The fact is, some months before the time of our story, Bertha had
noticed in her walks a young artist, who seemed to be fated to be
invariably sketching points of interest in the road she had to take.
There was one particular tree, exactly in the path which led from the
castle-gate, which he had sketched from at least four points