etend to
be clean indifferent to the main chance.

The Vicar fancied a likeness of himself in his surplice, which his
parishioners might buy and engrave, if they had a mind to preserve his
lineaments when he was no longer among them. The Justice took a notion
to have his big girls and his little girls, his boy and nurse, his
wife, and himself as the sheltering stem of the whole young growth, in
one canvas.

But the great achievement was Sam Winnington's picture of Clarissa, "not
as a crazy Kate this time," she told him saucily, "but myself in my hair
and brocade, to show what a grand lady I can be." Thus Clarissa dressed
herself out in one of those magnificent toilettes all in the autumn
mornings, and sat there in state for hours, for the sole benefit of
posterity, unless Sam Winnington was to reap a passing advantage by the
process. Clarissa in her brocade, with the stiff body and the skirt
standing on end, her neckerchief drawn through the straps of her bodice,
her bouquet pinned, "French fashion," on her side; surely that picture
was a masterpiece. So speaking was the copy of her deep brown hair, her
soft, proud cheek, the wave of her ripe red lips, that a tame white
pigeon, accustomed to sit on her shoulder, flew into the window right at
the canvas, and, striking against the hard, flat surface, fell
fluttering and cooing in consternation to the ground. If that was not an
acknowledgment of the limner's fidelity, what could be?

Clary, in person, played my lady very well, reclining in her father's
great chair. Her hall was roomy enough; it had its space for Sam
Winnington's easel as well as Clary's harpsichord, and, what was more
useful, her spinning-wheel, besides closets and cupboards without
number. Sam Winnington entertained Clarissa; he was famous in years to
come for keeping his sisters in good humour. He told her of the academy
and the president's parties, of the public gardens and the wild beast
shows; and how the Princesses had their trains borne as they crossed the
park. He asked her what quality in herself she valued the most; and
owned that he was hugely indebted to his coolness. When his colours were
not drying fast enough, he read her a page or two of grand heroic
reading from Pope's 'Homer' about Agamemnon and Achilles, Helen and
Andromache; when she tired of that he was back again to the sparkling
gossip of the town, for he was a brilliant fellow, with a clear
intellect and a fine taste; and he had