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usual gilt clock and ornaments. A few good pastels hung upon the wall; in one corner stood a small rose-wood piano, with music lying open upon the desk; in short, there was every evidence of comfort and competence, if not of wealth. Sir Guy, glancing around, found the room charming; not from its furniture or decorations, but from the bright visible presence of nature, sunshine, and Spring. Great china bowls stood on the tables, filled with lilies of the valley, pink hyacinths, and blue forget-me-nots, with here and there an early rose or sprig of bright geranium. Two love-birds cooed and chattered together in their cage by the window, unprisoned birds sang sweetly in the neighbouring trees, glad sunshine streamed through every chink where it could gain admittance, and down below lay the sweetest, most peaceful landscape on which the tired
senses of manerer rested. The door opened, and Dolores came in blushing rosy red, and looking as fresh and simple as a pinktipped daisy bud.
“It is very kind of you to let me paint you," said Sir Guy, smiling with pleasure at the sight of her sweet face.
“It is you who are kind, Monsieur. But will you please speak in French, since Marcelline exacts it," and she cast a glance at her chaperon, who entered at the moment, and went to station herself at a respectful distance (but not out of hearing) with her knitting.
“Certainly, if Marcelline desires it,” he smiled, conceiving a better opinion of her from that moment. “But I must warn you that I have sadly forgotten my French.”
"Ah! Monsieur, but you speak very well. Not, perhaps, quite like a French
man, but still so that one understands perfectly."
The young man began to make arrangements for the sketch.
“Mademoiselle, will it tire you too much if I ask you to stand ?”
"Oh, no. I prefer to stand. I like anything better than sitting, that tires one most.”
“Will you permit me to place you? I want you to look just like the picture in the Louvre—your dress held up by your arms, and your hands one in the other. So! We ought to have some flowers. Ah!” and Guy went to the china bowl and pulled out the cluster of apple-blossom be had seen the girl pluck the day before, and laid them in her lap.
"Monsieur pardons the poorness of my dress, I hope,” said Dolores, shyly. “The lady in the picture without doubt was very differently dressed."
"No," Guy answered, “ quite simply. Only her dress was not high to the throat; bnt low, with a handkerchief tied loosely over the neck. But I must imagine your pretty shoulders,” he added.
The girl blushed like a crimson rose. Marcelline looked up from her knitting, and the young man coloured and felt quite vexed with himself.
“Do you go to England sometimes ?” he asked quickly.
“No, never, and I should so like it."
"Your Mamma will take you some day, perhaps."
"Ah! no. Mamma hates England and the English. Since we came here thirteen years ago, she has never been away from Rouen a day until now.”
“Then you have never been in Paris either?”
“Ah! no, Monsieur," and Dolores sigh
ed. “Is it not beautiful? Marcelline tells me it is twenty times as big as Rouen, and full of streets !-oh, much finer, and with better shops than the Rue du Grand Pont and the Rue des Carmes.”
“Marcelline is quite right,” smiled Guy. “ You will be so charmed with the Boulevards, full of beautiful shops; and in the Rue de la Paix and the Palais Royal you will think yourself suddenly transplanted to Aladdin's cave—all the windows are full of diamonds and rubies as big as a bird's egg.”
“Ah, Monsieur, I shall never see that wonderful sight," and the little maid heaved another big sigh.
“Oh yes, you will; and some day when I am walking there, I shall meet you, and stop to remind you how once you were good enough to stand for me to paint you. And then you will go to the Louvre