them." A home thrust this.

She could not honestly say that she thought much of her master's work.
Nor, apparently, did any other person. Result, tinned meats.

Yes, one person thought a deal of it, or pretended to do so; was
constantly flinging up her hands in delight over it; had even been
caught whispering fiercely to a friend, "Praise it, praise it, praise
it!" This was when the painter was sunk in gloom. Never, as I could well
believe, was such a one as Mary for luring a man back to cheerfulness.

"A dangerous woman," I said, with a shudder, and fell to examining a
painting over the mantel-shelf. It was a portrait of a man, and had
impressed me favourably because it was framed.

"A friend of hers," my guide informed me, "but I never seed him."

I would have turned away from it, had not an inscription on the picture
drawn me nearer. It was in a lady's handwriting, and these were the
words: "Fancy portrait of our dear unknown." Could it be meant for me? I
cannot tell you how interested I suddenly became.

It represented a very fine looking fellow, indeed, and not a day more
than thirty.

"A friend of hers, ma'am, did you say?" I asked quite shakily. "How do
you know that, if you have never seen him?"

"When master was painting of it," she said, "in the studio, he used to
come running in here to say to her such like as, 'What colour would you
make his eyes?'"

"And her reply, ma'am?" I asked eagerly.

"She said, 'Beautiful blue eyes.' And he said, 'You wouldn't make it
a handsome face, would you?' and she says, 'A very handsome face.' And
says he, 'Middle-aged?' and says she, 'Twenty-nine.' And I mind him
saying, 'A little bald on the top?' and she says, says she, 'Not at
all.'"

The dear, grateful girl, not to make me bald on the top.

"I have seed her kiss her hand to that picture," said the maid.

Fancy Mary kissing her hand to me! Oh, the pretty love!

Pooh!

I was staring at the picture, cogitating what insulting message I could
write on it, when I heard the woman's voice again. "I think she has
known him since she were a babby," she was saying, "for this here was a
present he give her."

She was on her knees drawing the doll's house from beneath the sofa,
where it had been hidden away; and immediately I thought, "I shall slip
the insulting message into this." But I did not, and I shall tell you
why. It was because the engaging toy had been redecorated by loving
hands; there were fresh gowns