whose cheek was now one glow of scarlet.
"Even this, half finished as it is, may lay claim to merit." And as she
spoke, she removed a napkin from a little statue, before which she held
the candle.

"For shame, Kate, dearest Kate!" cried Nelly, standing up in bashful
discomfiture.

"It is a statuette of poor Frank, madam," continued Kate, who, totally
regardless of her sister's interruption now exhibited the figure nearer.
"You see him just as he left us, his knapsack on his shoulder, his sword
fastened across it, his little cap on one side of his head, and
that happy smile upon his lips. Poor dear fellow! how sad a heart it
covered!"

"And was this his work?" asked Lady Hester, in astonishment.

"No, madam; my sister Nelly was the artist of this, as of all the
others. Unaided and untaught, her own ingenuity alone suggesting the
means, as her imagination supplied the conception."

"Kate! dear, dear Kate!" said Ellen, with a voice of almost rebuke.
"You forget how unworthy these poor efforts are of such high-sounding
epithets." Then, turning to Lady Hester, she continued: "Were it to ears
less charitable than yours, madam, these foolish words were spoken, I
should fear the criticism our presumption would seem to call forth. But
you will not think harshly of us for ignorance."

"But this figure is admirable; the attitude is graceful; the character
of the head, the features, are in good keeping. I know, of course,
nothing of the resemblance to your brother, but, as a work of art, I am
competent to say it has high merit. Do tell me how the thought of doing
these things first occurred to you."

"I learned drawing as a child, madam, and was always fond of it," said
Ellen, with a degree of constraint that seemed as if the question were
painful to answer.

"Yes, and so have I spent months ay, I believe I might say years at the
easel, copying every Giorgione at Venice and every Vandyk at Genoa, and
yet such a thought never suggested itself to me."

"I am happy to think so, madam," was the low response.

"Why so? how do you mean?" asked Lady Hester, eagerly.

"That the motive in my case never could have been yours, madam."

"And what was the motive?"

"Poverty, madam. The word is not a pleasant word to syllable, but it is
even better than any attempt at disguise. These trifles, while beguiling
many a dreary hour, have helped us through a season of more than usual
difficulty."

"Yes, madam," broke in Kate. "You a