ntil you took
it off. I will paint you in the black velvet gown you wore last night,
with the Medici collar; and the jolly arrangement of lace and diamonds
on your head. And in your hand you shall hold an antique crystal
mirror, mounted in silver."

The artist half closed his eyes, and as he described his picture in a
voice full of music and mystery, an attentive hush fell upon the gay
group around him. When Garth Dalmain described his pictures, people saw
them. When they walked into the Academy or the New Gallery the
following year, they would say: "Ah, there it is! just as we saw it
that day, before a stroke of it was on the canvas."

"In your left hand, you shall hold the mirror, but you shall not be
looking into it; because you never look into mirrors, dear Duchess,
excepting to see whether the scolding you are giving your maid, as she
stands behind you, is making her cry; and whether that is why she is
being so clumsy in her manipulation of pins and things. If it is, you
promptly promise her a day off, to go and see her old mother; and pay
her journey there and back. If it isn't, you scold her some more. Were
I the maid, I should always cry, large tears warranted to show in the
glass; only I should not sniff, because sniffing is so intensely
aggravating; and I should be most frightfully careful that my tears did
not run down your neck."

"Dal, you ridiculous CHILD!" said the duchess. "Leave off talking about
my maids, and my neck, and your crocodile tears, and finish describing
the portrait. What do I do, with the mirror?"

"You do not look into it," continued Garth Dalmain, meditatively;
"because we KNOW that is a thing you never do. Even when you put on
that hat, and tie those ribbons--Miss Champion, I wish you would hold
my hand--in a bow under your chin, you don't consult the mirror. But
you shall sit with it in your left hand, your elbow resting on an
Eastern table of black ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You will turn
it from you, so that it reflects something exactly in front of you in
the imaginary foreground. You will be looking at this unseen object
with an expression of sublime affection. And in the mirror I will paint
a vivid, brilliant, complete reflection, minute, but perfect in every
detail, of your scarlet macaw on his perch. We will call it
'Reflections,' because one must always give a silly up-to-date title to
pictures, and just now one nondescript word is the fashion, unless you
feel it n