lace by Valentine before he could write anything
more. She took some of the bread-crumb near her to rub out what he had
written--hesitated as her hand approached the lines--colored more deeply
than before, and went on with her drawing, leaving the letters beneath
it to remain just as young Thorpe had traced them.

"I shall never be able to draw as well as she does," said Zack, looking
at the little he had done with a groan of despair. "The fact is, I don't
think drawing's my forte. It's color, depend upon it. Only wait till I
come to that; and see how I'll lay on the paint! Didn't you find drawing
infernally difficult, Blyth, when you first began?"

"I find it difficult still, Master Zack," replied Mr. Blyth. "Art
wouldn't be the glorious thing it is, if it wasn't all difficulty from
beginning to end; if it didn't force out all the fine points in a man's
character as soon as he takes to it. Just eight o'clock," continued
Valentine, looking at his watch. "Put down your drawing-boards for the
present. I pronounce the sitting of this Academy to be suspended till
after tea."

"Valentine, dear," said Mrs. Blyth, smiling mysteriously, as she slipped
her hand under the coverlid of the couch, "I can't get Madonna to look
at me, and I want her here. Will you oblige me by bringing her to my
bedside?"

"Certainly, my love," returned Mr. Blyth, obeying the request. "You have
a double claim on my services to-night, for you have shown yourself the
most promising of my pupils. Come here, Zack, and see what Mrs. Blyth
has done. The best drawing of the evening--just what I thought it would
be--the best drawing of the evening!"

Zack, who had been yawning disconsolately over his own copy, with his
fists stuck into his cheeks, and his elbows on his knees, bustled up to
the couch directly. As he approached, Madonna tried to get back to her
former position at the fireplace, but was prevented by Mrs. Blyth, who
kept tight hold of her hand. Just then, Zack fixed his eyes on her and
increased her confusion.

"She looks prettier than ever to-night, don't she, Mrs. Blyth?" he said,
sitting down and yawning again. "I always like her best when her eyes
brighten up and look twenty different ways in a minute, just as they're
doing now. She may not be so like Raphael's pictures at such times, I
dare say (here he yawned once more); but for my part--What's she wanting
to get away for? And what are you laughing about, Mrs. Blyth? I say,
Valentine