, can hardly keep away from Salemina; and she is such a
fascinating midget, I should think anybody would be glad to have her
included in a marriage contract. 'You have a weeny, weeny line between
your eyebrows, just like my daddy's,' she said to Salemina the other
day. 'It's such a little one, perhaps I can kiss it away; but daddy has
too many, and they are cutted too deep. Sometimes he whispers, 'Daddy is
sad, Broona,' and then I say, 'Play up, play up, and play the game!' and
that makes him smile.'"

"She is a darling," said Francesca, with the suspicion of a tear in her
eye. "'Were you ever in love, Miss Fancy?' she asked me once. 'I was; it
was long, long ago before I belonged to daddy'; and another time when
I had been reading to her, she said 'I often think that when I get
into the kingdom of heaven the person I'll be gladdest to see will be
Marjorie Fleming.' Yes, the children are sure to help; they always do in
whatever circumstances they chance to be placed. Did you notice Salemina
with them at tea-time, yesterday? It was such a charming scene. The
heavy rain had kept them in, and things had gone wrong in the
nursery. Salemina had glued the hair on Broona's dolly, and knit up a
heart-breaking wound in her side. Then she mended the legs of all the
animals in the Noah's ark, so that they stood firm, erect, and proud;
and when, to draw the children's eyes from the wet window-panes, she
proposed a story, it was pretty to see the grateful youngsters snuggle
in her lap and by her side."

"When does an artist ever fail to see pictures? I have loved Salemina
always, even when she used to part her hair in the middle and wear
spectacles; but that is the first time I ever wanted to paint her, with
the firelight shining on the soft, restful greys and violets of her
dress, and Broona in her arms. Of course, if a woman is ever to be
lovely at all, it will be when she is holding a child. It is the oldest
of all old pictures, and the most beautiful, I believe, in a man's eyes.

"And do you notice that she and the doctor are beginning to speak more
freely of their past acquaintance?" I went on, looking up at Francesca,
who had dropped her work in her interest. "It is too amusing! Every hour
or two it is: 'Do you remember the day we went to Bunker Hill?' or,
'Do you recall that charming Mrs. Andrews, with whom we used to dine
occasionally?' or, 'What has become of your cousin Samuel?' and, 'Is
your uncle Thomas yet living?'...