urpose for du Maurier, who
possessed that chest-note in great fulness.)

I must skip a few years and speak of a drawing that appeared in
_Punch_ in 1875,[4] and which has a special interest for me; it brings
back to my mind a happy thought of du Maurier's, which is closely
connected with a particularly happy thought of my own, that took root
then and has flourished ever since.

[Footnote 4: Published by kind permission of the proprietors of
_Punch_.]

I must explain that there was a time when I had to console myself
with the reflection that the course of true love never runs smooth. A
lady whom in my mind I had selected as a mother-in-law, by no means
reciprocated my feelings of respect and goodwill. But the young lady,
her daughter, fortunately sided with me, and had, in fact, given her
very willing consent to the change in her mother's position which I
had suggested. I was naturally anxious to assure that young lady as
frequently and as emphatically as possible how much I appreciated
her assistance, and how determined I was never to have any other
mother-in-law but the one of my choice; nor could there be anything
obscure in such a declaration, as of three sisters in the family that
particular one was the only unmarried one. But neither in obscure nor
in explicit language was I allowed to approach her; a blockade was
declared and rigorously enforced, and we were soon separated by a
distance of some few hundred miles.

[Illustration]

I can look back complacently on the troubles of those days now that
twenty years have elapsed since I emerged victorious from the contest;
but then the future looked blank and bleak, and I felt nonplussed and
down-hearted. Knowing, however, what a faint heart is said never to
win, I was anxious to keep mine up to the mark, and with a view to
stimulating its buoyancy I went to make a friendly call on du Maurier.
He would, I felt sure, be sympathetic, and, whatever else might be
wanting in that troublesome eye of his, there would be a certain
vivifying twinkle in it that could always set me up.

It was as I expected, and I had the full benefit of the eye, and of an
ear, too, that he lent willingly as I told him how matters stood.

"Well," he said, "if you can't smuggle in a letter, let's smuggle in
your portrait. It will be rather a joke if she comes across you in
_Punch_. I've just got a subject in which I can use you."

To be sure, I jumped at the idea, only beseeching him to ma