tiful features as
because of the expression which was at once youthful, serene, and noble.
All these points were afterward portrayed by Mr. Stuart, though it was
not until many years later that the picture was executed, Mr. Stuart
being recalled almost immediately to London, where, indeed, Calvert
finally sat to him. That likeness, done in the most admirable fashion,
came later into the possession of one of Calvert's dearest friends and
greatest admirers, and was prized above most things by one who loved the
original so deeply and so long.

"And he has other attractions," said Mr. Jefferson, after a long pause,
during which the two gentlemen regarded young Calvert, the artist
absorbed in plans for his picture, Mr. Jefferson in affectionate
thoughts of the young man so dear to his heart. "He has one of the
clearest, freshest voices that you ever heard, Mr. Stuart; a voice that
matches his face and makes one believe in youth and happiness and truth.
Why should he not sing for us?" he exclaimed. "The dancing has ceased, I
see. Come, I will ask him."

Followed by Mr. Stuart, he went over to young Calvert, who was still
standing sentinel beside Madame Carr, and clapped him affectionately on
the shoulder.

"Ned, we demand a song! Come, no refusal, sir!" he exclaimed. "I shall
send Caesar for my Amati and you must sing us something. Shall it be
'The Lass with the Delicate Air'? That is my favorite, I think. 'Tis, as
you know, Mr. Stuart, by the late Dr. Arne, the prince of song-writers.
Here, boy!" he said, turning to one of the small darkies standing about
to snuff the candles, "tell Caesar to bring me 'Pet.'"--for it was thus
he called his violin, which had been saved by Caesar's devotion and
bravery when all else at Elk Hill was destroyed by order of my Lord
Cornwallis. While this was going forward Calvert stood by silent,
outwardly calm and unruffled, inwardly much perturbed. It was his
pleasure and habit to sing for Mr. Jefferson or for General and Madame
Washington, but it was something of an ordeal to sing before an
audience. That quiet heroism, though, which was part of his character,
and which made him accept tranquilly everything, from the most trifling
inconvenience to the greatest trials, kept him from raising any
objection.

As Mr. Jefferson drew his bow across his violin the company fell away
from the centre of the room, leaving a clear space. Stepping forward he
leaned over his beloved Amati and played the