her
legs are out of drawing."

"Mr. Blyth!!!" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, indignant at this professional
criticism on Jezebel's legs.

"Why don't you tell us at once who the excellent woman is?" cried the
doctor, secretly tickled by the allusion which had shocked his wife.

"Her name's Peckover," said Valentine; "she's a respectable married
woman; she doesn't ride in the circus at all; and she nursed the poor
child by her mother's own wish."

"We shall be delighted to see her to-morrow," said the warm-hearted
rector--"or, no--stop! Not to-morrow; I shall be out. The day after.
Cake and cowslip wine for the deaf and dumb child at twelve o'clock--eh,
my dear?"

"That's right! God bless you! you're always kindness itself," cried
Valentine; "I'll find out Mrs. Peckover, and let her know. Not a wink
of sleep for me to-night--never mind!" Here Valentine suddenly shut the
door, then as suddenly opened it again, and added, "I mean to finish
that infernal horse-picture to-morrow, and go to the circus again in
the evening." With these words he vanished; and they heard him soon
afterwards whistling his favorite "Drops of Brandy," in the rectory
garden.

"Cracked! cracked!" cried the doctor. "Dear old Valentine!"

"I'm afraid his principles are very loose," said Mrs. Joyce, whose
thoughts still ran on the unlucky professional allusion to Jezebel's
legs.

The next morning, when Mr. Blyth presented himself at the stables, and
went on with the portrait of the cover-hack, the squire had no longer
the slightest reason to complain of the painter's desire to combine
in his work picturesqueness of effect with accuracy of resemblance.
Valentine argued no longer about introducing "light and shade," or
"keeping the background subdued in tone." His thoughts were all with the
deaf and dumb child and Mrs. Peckover; and he smudged away recklessly,
just as he was told, without once uttering so much as a word of protest.
By the evening he had concluded his labor. The squire said it was one of
the best portraits of a horse that had ever been taken: to which piece
of criticism the writer of the present narrative is bound in common
candor to add, that it was also the very worst picture that Mr. Blyth
had ever painted.

On returning to Rubbleford, Valentine proceeded at once to the circus;
placing himself, as nearly as he could, in the same position which he
had occupied the night before.

The child was again applauded by the whole audience, an