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and see the picture of 'La Cruche Cassée,' and fancy you are looking in the glass all the while."
Time took to himself wings as the young man sketched and talked ; Marcelline knitted in silence; and Dolores stood, the shyest, prettiest of models.
“I must not tax your kindness any longer to-day,” he said, at last laying down his
“May I look, Monsieur ?" and the model came forward with eager expectation in her eyes.
"Oh no, not yet. You would be sadly disgusted if I let you see it in this early state. I wish you would wait until it is finished.”
Dolores looked disappointed.
"I never had my picture made in all my life.”
“ Not even a photograph ?”
She shook her head.
“ Then when I have finished this, if it does you justice at all, I will make a copy and send it you."
“Oh, Monsieur, will you really ?”
"Certainly I will. I owe you something for your goodness in sitting to me.”
Marcelline looked up quickly. She was afraid lest he should make some allusion to their bargain.
Guy saw the look, and smiled to him
“I should be very sorry for the little thing to know I pay for painting her,” he thought.
Dolores accompanied him to the door.
“Come no further, Mademoiselle,” cried Marcelline. “I shall unlock the gate for Monsieur.” But the girl paid no heed, and walked down the avenue by his side.
“See, Monsieur, how pretty are all these
blue forget-me-nots,” she said, stopping before a great sky-coloured patch.
“Will you give me one ?”
For answer, she stooped and plucked a handful.
“I shall put them away with my treasures,” he said, smiling at her, “in memory of this pleasant day.” Then they reached the gate, and he said good-bye in English, forgetting Marcelline.
“Good-bye, Monsieur. You will come to-morrow.”
“I would not leave my picture unfinished for the world,” and he raised his hat to her and went away, with a sweet blushing young face and heaven-blue eyes engraven on his memory.
Dolores stood watching him until he was out of sight; then she locked the gate, and sat down on the green bank, her eyes half closed, her lips parted. It might have been a day-dream with some girls, but with Dolores it was a soft sensation of pleasure, like that which a kitten feels lying curled up in the sunshine. In the child's nature there slumbered a vein of passion that had never been aroused. When it was called forth, it would be sudden, strong, wilful, like a breath of hot air; but as yet, to-day, it slumbered. To-morrow it will quicken, day by day the flame will be fanned, and then-poor little Dolores! If you had only never seen this good-looking painter, never had the misfortune to be like that famous picture in the Louvre galleries!
Guy found it quite impossible to complete his sketch in three days, and Marcelline, having received the promised bribe, was loth to hurry such a liberal Milor. She had misgivings sometimes about his visit coming to Madame Power's ears, but, as luck would have it, Pierre was confined
to his bed with rheumatism, and she could always manage to keep Jeanneton employed in the back-kitchen while the painting went on.
Nearly a fortnight passed—the picture was not even yet completed, and Marcelline began to regret the day when she had been tempted to show hospitality to the handsome stranger. The child was in love with him-in love, and utterly oblivious of anything else in the world. The shrewd Frenchwoman knew the symptoms well enough, and when she saw the little one silent and pre-occupied, sitting under the trees in the garden, and sometimes smiling unconsciously to herself, or running to the gate an hour before the time to watch for Sir Guy, she would wrinkle her forehead and smoothe her apron uneasily, saying under her breath,
"Mon Dieu ! what will become of the