amily traditions alive. It's a
good thing--a good thing!"

"She was a beautiful woman, the original of that portrait."

"She was a great beauty, indeed. Her husband took her to London to
have it done by the great painter. Ah, the Scotch lasses were fine!
Look at that color! You don't see that here, no?"

"Our American women are too pale, for the most part; but then again,
your men are too red."

"Ah! Beef and red wine! Beef and red wine! With us in Scotland it was
good oatcakes and home-brew--and the air. The air of the Scotch hills
and the sea. You don't have such air here, I've often heard my father
say. I've spent the greater part of my life here, so it's mostly the
traditions I have--they and the portraits."

Thus it came about that owing to his desire to keep up the line of
family portraits, Peter Craigmile engaged the artist to paint the
picture of his gentle, sweet-faced wife. She was painted seated, a
little son on either side of her; and now in the dimness she looked
out from the heavy gold frame, a half smile playing about her lips, on
her lap an open book, and about the low-cut crimson velvet bodice
rare old lace pinned at the bosom with a large brooch of wrought gold,
framing a delicately cut cameo.

As Mary Ballard sat in the parlor waiting, she looked up in the dusky
light at this picture. Ah, yes! Her Bertrand also was a great painter.
If only he could be where he might become known and appreciated! She
sighed for another reason, also, as she regarded it: because the two
little sons clasped by the mother's arms were both gone. Sunny-haired
Scotch laddies they were, with fair, wide brows, each in kilt and
plaid, with bare knees and ruddy cheeks. What delight her husband had
taken in painting it! And now the mother mourned unceasingly the loss
of those little sons, and of one other whom Mary had never seen, and
of whom they had no likeness. It was indeed hard that the one son left
them,--their firstborn,--their hope and pride, should now be going
away to leave them, going perhaps to his death.

The door opened and a shadow swept slowly across the room. Always pale
and in black--wrapped in her mourning the shadow of sorrow never left
this mother; and now it seemed to envelop even Mary Ballard, bright
and warm of nature as she was.

Hester Craigmile barely smiled as she held out her slender,
blue-veined hand.

"It is very good of you to come to me, Mary Ballard, but you can't
make me think I shoul