ere not nearly such finished portraits as that of the
crocus. A few telling strokes of colour made them, and gave them a life
and pertness that were clever enough. Beneath the sketch was written, "La
Demoiselle. Des enfants du village la regardent."

My great-grandfather translated this for me, and used to show me how the
"little peasants," Marguerite and Celandine, were peeping in at the
pretty young lady in her mauve dress striped with violet.

But every sketch had its story, and often its moral; not, as a rule, a
very original one. In one, a lovely study of ivy crept over a rotten
branch upon the ground. A crimson toadstool relieved the heavy green,
and suggested that the year was drawing to a close. Beneath it was
written, "Charity." "Thus," said my great-grandfather, "one covers up
and hides the defects of one he loves."

A study of gaudy summer tulips stood--as may be guessed--for Pride.

"Pride," said my great-grandfather, "is a sin; a mortal sin, dear child.
Moreover, it is foolish, and also vulgar--the pride of fine clothes,
money, equipages, and the like. What is called pride of birth--the
dignity of an ancient name--this, indeed, is another thing. It is not
petty, not personal; it seems to me more like patriotism--the pride of
country."

I did my best to describe to Elspeth both the sketch and my
great-grandfather's commentary.

"A' pride's sinful," said Elspeth decidedly. "Pride o' wealth, and pride
o' birth. Not that I'm for objecting to a decent satisfaction in a
body's ain gude conduct and respectability. Pride o' character, that's
anither thing a'thegither, and to be respectit."

My great-grandfather gave me a few paints, and under his directions I
daubed away, much to my own content. When I was struggling hopelessly
with the perspective of some pansies of various colours (for in
imitation of him I painted flowers), he would say, "Never mind the
shape, dear Marguerite, get the colour--the colour, my child!" And he
trained me to a quickness in the perception of colour certainly not
common at my age.

I spent many pleasant hours, too, in the less intellectual society of
Adolphe. He dug a bed for me in a bit of spare ground, and shaped it
like a heart. He laboured constantly at this heart, making it plump by
piling up the earth, and cramming it with plants of various
kinds--perennials much in want of subdivision, and often in full
bloom--which he brought from cottage gardens of "folk he knew," and