, before the silence was broken, a pretty wreath of snow had formed
itself about the rim of each of their black felt hats, while little
ribbons of it were decorating the folds of their garments.

"What are you going to do with your green cheese?"

"I shall go to Paris next autumn," said Eleanor, tightly clasping the
check which she held inside her muff.

"That's what I thought," said Madge; and if her eyes grew a trifle red
and moist it was perhaps natural enough, since the snow was flying
straight into them.

CHAPTER II

THE MINIATURE

"What makes you keep looking at me, Eleanor Merritt? You're not a bit
of a good model!"

Thus reproved, Eleanor once more fixed her eyes upon a very bad
oil-portrait of Great-grandfather Burtwell, an elderly man of a wooden
countenance, in stock and choker, surmounting an expanse of black
broadcloth which occupied two-thirds of the canvas.

The girls were established in what was known as the spare-room of the
Burtwell house, which, with its north light and usual freedom from
visitors made a very good studio. Madge was painting a miniature of
Eleanor. The diminutive size of her undertaking was causing her a good
deal of embarrassment, and she was consequently inclined to be rather
severe with her sitter.

"You know I am not going to have many more chances of looking at you
for a year to come," Eleanor urged, in a tone of meek dejection.

"And I can't see you, even now," Madge persisted, "if you don't turn
more toward the light."

There was silence again for some minutes, while Madge painted steadily
on. Difficult as was this new task which she had set herself, she was
captivated with it. However the miniature might turn out as a
likeness, she felt sure that each stroke of her brush was making a
prettier picture of it. The eyes already had the real Eleanor look,
and the hair was "pretty nice." The mouth was troublesome, to be sure,
and to-day she did not feel inspired to improve it, and had turned her
attention to less important details.

"You've got such a pretty ear!" she remarked presently, as she touched
its outermost rim with a hair line, cocking her head to one side, the
while, in a very professional manner; "Did you ever notice what a
pretty ear you have?"

"Better be careful how you talk about it," Eleanor laughed, "for fear
it should begin to burn!"

The artist looked in some trepidation at the feature in question, but
its soft hue did not deepen. She to