udible. Malcolm, who
was about to knock, changed his mind and peeped in through the
aperture; then he beckoned to Anna to do likewise.

It was certainly a pretty picture before them. Verity was sitting in
her low nursery chair, in the shadow of the heavy, ruby-coloured
curtains, hushing her child to sleep, while her husband, at a little
distance, stood before his easel; but she was so utterly transformed
that Anna would not have known her.

She wore the dress of a Roman peasant; heavy gilt beads were clasped
round her throat and fell over her white pleated chemisette, a
gay-coloured scarf was arranged picturesquely on her head and gave
warmth and colour to the small brown face. On her lap lay Babs,
open-eyed and rebellious, kicking up her bare little feet and humming
baby fashion in pleased accompaniment.

"Oh, Amias," exclaimed Verity at last in a laughing voice, "what am I
to do with this naughty girlie, who refuses to go to sleep and only
laughs in her mother's face? Oh, you darling, you darling!" and here
Verity smothered the little one with kisses.

"Behold the stern parent!" observed Malcolm mockingly at this point.
"Verity, that rogue of a Babs is a match for you already. Why don't you
put her in her cot and order her to go to sleep, instead of crooning
absurd ditties over her? Oh, I thought so," severely, as Babs grasped
her toes with her dimpled hands in the practised style of an acrobat,
and gurgled defiantly in his face; "she is just exulting over her own
victory as an emancipated daughter."

"Babs takes after her great-grandmother," observed Amias cheerfully
from the background; "it is the law of heredity, you see. Her name was
also Barbara--Barbara Allen, and she was remarkable for her brown skin,
her gipsy beauty, and her incorrigible self-will. She had lovers by the
score, and flouted them all except my great-grandfather, whom I have
reason to believe wished himself dead before he had been married a
week. She was the mother of fifteen, and lived to a good old age, and
was a pride and terror to the neighbourhood, and the mantle of her
self-will has fallen upon Barbara Maud Keston. Yea-Verily, my child,
the oracle has spoken," and Amias went on with his work, while Babs
gurgled at him in delighted appreciation of these paternal sentiments.

"Would Miss Sheldon care to see my picture, Malcolm?" he asked the next
minute in his usual voice; "it is nearly finished, and I shall be glad
of an opinion;" and