countenance.

"Now, Bob," she said, opening her portfolio, with all her youthful
frankness and confidence, "you know well enough I am not one of those
old masters of whom you used to talk so much, but your own pupil--the
work of your own hands; and if you find more faults than you have
expected, you will have the goodness to remember that the master has
deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning--there--that is a
caricature of your own countenance, staring you in the face, as a
preface!"

"This is like, I should think--was it done from memory, dear Maud?"

"How else should it be done? All our entreaties have never been able to
persuade you to send us even a miniature. You are wrong in this, Bob"--
by no accident did Maud now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah
often did. There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the _Bob_,
that she could easily adopt; but the 'Robert' had a family sound that
she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature than Maud Meredith
did not exist--"You are wrong, Bob; for mother actually pines to
possess your picture, in some shape or other. It was this wish that
induced me to attempt these things."

"And why has no one of them ever been finished?--Here are six or eight
beginnings, and all, more or less, like, I should think, and not one of
them more than half done. Why have I been treated so cavalierly, Miss
Maud?"

The fair artist's colour deepened a little; but her smile was quite as
sweet as it was saucy, as she replied--

"Girlish caprice, I suppose. I like neither of them; and of that which
a woman dislikes, she will have none. To be candid, however, I hardly
think there is one of them all that does you justice."

"No?--what fault have you to find with this? This might be worked up to
something very natural."

"It would be _a_ natural, then--it wants expression, fearfully."

"And this, which is still better. That might be finished while I am
here, and I will give you some sittings."

"Even mother dislikes _that_--there is too much of the Major of
Foot in it. Mr. Woods says it is a martial picture."

"And ought not a soldier to look like a soldier? To me, now, that seems
a capital beginning."

"It is not what mother, or Beulah--or father--or even any of us wants.
It is too full of Bunker's Hill. Your friends desire to see you as you
appear to _them_; not as you appear to your enemies."

"Upon my word, Maud, you have made great advances in the art! Thi