d. She was called hither and thither all
over the house; since on these two days, for the only time in the
year, there was at Woodford Cottage a _levee_ of artists, patrons,
and connoisseurs. Miss Rothesay was needed everywhere; first in the
painting-room, to assist in arranging its various treasures, her taste
and tact assisting Mr. Vanbrugh's artistic skill. For the thousandth
time she helped to move the easel that sustained the small purchaseable
picture with which Michael this year condescended to favour the
Academy; and admired, to the painter's heart's content, the beloved and
long-to-be-unsold "Alcestis," which extended in solitary grandeur over
one whole side of the studio. Then she flitted to Miss Vanbrugh's room,
to help her to dress for this important occasion. Never was there such
a proud, happy little woman as Meliora Vanbrugh on the first Monday and
Tuesday in April, when at least a dozen carriages usually rolled
down the muddy lane, and the great surly dog, kennelled under the
mulberry-tree, was never silent "from morn till dewy eve." All, thought
the delighted Meliora, was an ovation to her brother. Each year she
fully expected that these visiting patrons would buy up every work
of Art in the studio, to say nothing of those adorning the hall--the
cartoons and frescoes of Michael's long-past youth. And each year,
when the carriages rolled away, and the visitants admiration remained
nothing _but_ admiration, she consoled herself with the thought that
Michael Vanbrugh was "a man before his age," but that his time for
appreciation would surely come. So she hoped on till the next April.
Happy Meliora!

"Yes, you do seem happy, Miss Vanbrugh," said Olive, when she had
coaxed the stiff grizzled hair under a neat cap of her own skilful
manufacturing; and the painter's little sister was about to mount guard
in the bay-window of the parlour, from whence she could see the guests
walk down the garden, and be also ready to mark the expression of their
faces as they came out of the studio.

"Happy! to be sure I am! Everybody must confess that this last is
the best picture Michael ever painted"--(his sister had made the same
observation every April for twenty years). "But, my dear Miss Rothesay,
how wrong I am to talk so cheerfully to you, when _your_ picture is not
finished. Never mind, love. You have been a good, attentive daughter,
and it will end all for the best."

Olive smiled faintly, and said she knew it wou