a poppy on
a dungeon wall, it glowed and glittered out through a large hole in the
brown bark; it was Rose's face peeping. To our young lover's eye how
divine it shone! None of the half tints of common flesh were there,
but a thing all rose, lily, sapphire, and soul. His pencil dropped, his
mouth opened, he was downright dazzled by the glowing, bewitching face,
sparkling with fun, in the gaunt tree. Tell me, ladies, did she know,
even at that age, the value of that sombre frame to her brightness? The
moment she found herself detected, the gaunt old tree rang musical with
a crystal laugh, and out came the arch-dryad. "I have been there all the
time. How solemn you looked! Now for the result of such profound study."
He showed her his work; she altered her tone. "Oh, how clever!" she
cried, "and how rapid! What a facility you have! Monsieur is an artist,"
said she gravely; "I will be more respectful," and she dropped him a low
courtesy. "Mind you promised it me," she added sharply.

"You will accept it, then?"

"That I will, now it is worth having: dear me, I never reckoned on that.
Finish it directly," cried this peremptory young person.

"First I must trouble you to stand out there near the tree."

"Me? what for?"

"Because art loves contrasts. The tree is a picture of age and gradual
decay; by its side then I must place a personification of youth and
growing loveliness."

She did not answer, but made a sort of defiant pirouette, and went where
she was bid, and stood there with her back to the artist. "That will
never do," said he; "you really must be so good as to turn round."

"Oh, very well." And when she came round, behold her color had risen
mightily. Flattery is sweet.

This child of nature was delighted, and ashamed it should be seen that
she was.

And so he drew her, and kept looking off the paper at her, and had a
right in his character of artist to look her full in the face; and he
did so with long lingering glances. To be sure, they all began severe
and businesslike with half-closed eyes, and the peculiar hostile
expression art puts on; but then they always ended open-eyed, and so
full and tender, that she, poor girl, who was all real gold, though sham
brass, blushed and blushed, and did not know which way to look not to
be scorched up by his eye like a tender flower, or blandly absorbed like
the pearly dew. Ah, happy hour! ah, happy days of youth and innocence
and first love!

Trouble loves to in