ke Fox and Burke, whose lives were intimately
connected with the destinies of our own nation, and those, like
Goldsmith and Johnson, whose names are familiar in our schools and
homes. There is something about these portraits which makes them seem
alive, something too which gives to the plainest person a certain
dignity and interest.

With all the variety of subjects which Reynolds treated he was never
happier than when painting children. He loved them dearly, delighted
to play with them, and seemed to understand them as few grown people
do. In his great octagonal painting room were many things to amuse his
little friends, and a portrait sitting there usually meant a frolic.

Penelope Boothby is the name of the little girl in our illustration,
and the old-fashioned name is precisely suited to the quaint figure in
cap and mitts. We are reminded of that Penelope of the old Greek poem,
the Odyssey, who waited so faithfully through the years for the return
of her husband Odysseus from the Trojan war. The story runs that,
believing Odysseus to be dead, many suitors begged her hand, but she
always replied that before marrying she must first complete the shroud
she was making for her aged father-in-law. Every day she busied
herself with the task, but when night came she secretly undid all that
she had wrought through the day, so that it might never reach
completion. Thus she prolonged the time of waiting until at last
Odysseus returned to claim his wife.

Whether or not the little Penelope of our picture knew this story we
cannot say, but it was the fashion of the times to revive the names
and legends of mythology, and Penelope was a name which had come to
stand for all the domestic virtues.

[Illustration: PENELOPE BOOTHBY]

As we look at the picture for the first time the quaint costume of the
little girl suggests the idea that she is dressed for a tableau.
Children the world over love to don the clothes of a past generation
and play at men and women. Miss Penelope, we fancy, has been
ransacking some old chest of faded finery, and has arrayed herself in
the character of "Martha Washington," as painted by Gilbert Stuart.
The snowy kerchief folded across her bosom and the big mob cap on her
head are precisely like those in the portraits of the colonial lady.
The child purses her lips together primly and folds her hands in a
demure attitude in her lap, as if to play her part well, but she is
far too shy to look us directly