"Exactly so."

Thereupon ensued a pause, during which the canvas was heard to crack beneath the pencil, while the old lady's needles clicked where she sat knitting. Evidently ill at ease, Reynolds fretted upon his chair. At last he turned towards the Quakeress and courteously remarked, "The time will hang heavily upon your hands, madam."

"I have brought my work, and have no end of patience," she replied.

"That may be; but the first sitting is always tedious. Moreover, I need to become intimately acquainted with my model, and since Miss Woodville does not play this evening, I count upon keeping your niece for supper, if you have no objection. I am to have a few friends here, for whom my sister will do the honors as hostess,—Mr. Burke, Dr. Johnson, my charming neighbor, Miss Burney."

"The author of 'Evelina'! Oh, I long to meet her!"

"So you see, madam, you may spare yourself a tedious wait, and without fear leave Miss Woodville in my care. I shall make it my duty to see that she is returned to you properly escorted."

Thus politely dismissed, the old lady regretfully arose, but seemed still to hesitate.

"Go, aunt, or you will miss the reunion of 'The Favorites of Jesus Christ,' of whom you are the presiding officer," suggested the younger lady.

Whether influenced by this consideration, or whether she found it difficult to resist the desire which the painter had so delicately expressed, the Quakeress retired, escorted even to the threshold by Sir Joshua.

"Are you aware," he asked, returning to his model, "of my true purpose in sending this lady away?"

"In truth, no."

"Because she constrains you; because she casts a shadow upon your youth and gayety; in a word, because she prevents you from being yourself."

"Pray, how could you divine that?"

"My dear child, I have already deciphered three thousand human visages, and why should I not have learned to read the soul a little? The lady is your aunt?"

"Yes,—at least I have been told to call her so."

"And your parents?"

"My mother is dead; I never knew her. My father has travelled for the past fifteen years in foreign lands; perhaps I shall never see him. While a mere child I was placed in Miss Hannah More's boarding-school at Bristol. One day we learned that our mistress was a poetic genius, that Dr. Johnson himself had deigned to encourage her. You cannot imagine, Sir Joshua, what a sensation the tidings created among us girls! We all sighed to compose verse—or to recite. It was discovered that I spoke rather better than the others. I swear to you that I was possessed of but one desire,—to appear in costume, to escape from that frightful gray gown and that horrible Quaker bonnet in which we were all hooded. One day I was made to declaim before Mr. Garrick. He wished to give me lessons and make an actress of me. And a few months later I made my début."

"And a genuine triumph it was! I was there."

"It was then that I was informed that I had an aunt, a sister of my mother, and I was forthwith placed in her care, in her guardianship."

"And she has rigorously acquitted herself of the mission which was confided to her."

The child heaved a deep sigh.

"Ah, Sir Joshua! It is not that she is unkind in any way, but she is my constant shadow. In the wings, in the greenroom, at the rehearsals, she is ever at my side, answering questions which are put to me, refusing invitations, reading letters which are addressed to me, and forcing me to sing psalms to put to rout the evil thoughts which I find in Shakespeare!"

"I see; and you long to be free?"

"Oh, yes, passionately!"

"And what use would you make of your liberty?"

"Oh, I can't fancy. Perhaps I might love virtue if it were not crammed down my throat."

"Good!"

"But you do not know the worst yet."

"Well?"

"The worst—is Reuben!"

"And who may Reuben be?"

"My cousin, my aunt's son; but he is no Quaker. He belongs to one of those old, rigid, cruel sects which have been perpetuated in shadow since the days of the Puritans. He is a fanatic; it would rejoice his heart to plunge into a sea of papist blood; meanwhile he torments me."

"Perhaps he loves you?"

"Yes, according to his light, which surely is not a fair light."

"And what is the proper method of loving?"

The girl burst into a coquettish laugh.

"You ask me more than I can tell, Sir Joshua."

"Indeed? Pray how, then, can one who is ignorant of the sentiment impart its faithful presentment to others? How can she communicate an emotion which finds no echo in her own soul? Who has the ability to teach her to invest her voice, her gestures, her glance, her very smile, with the woes and joys of love?"

"Garrick, I tell you!"

That name, cast haphazard into their conversation, caused a divergence.

"Poor Garrick!" exclaimed Reynolds ruefully; "it is scarcely yet a year since we left him alone in his glory beneath the pavement of Westminster."

The mobile countenance of the child actress reflected as a mirror the sad memory evoked by the artist; a tear glistened upon the lashes of her beautiful eyes.

"He was your friend?" she inquired.

"Oh, yes; one of whom I was very proud."

"Did you paint his portrait?"

"Many times. He posed marvellously, and never tormented me as he did one of my fellow-artists to whom quite unwillingly he had accorded some sittings."

"What did he do?"

"Changed his mask every five minutes, until the poor artist, believing that he as often had a new model before him, or the devil, perhaps, flung away his brushes in despair."

"Garrick once told me," said Esther Woodville, "that the son of a friend, recently dead, had sought him to complain of some trickery by which he had been deprived of a portion of his inheritance. A certain old man, to whom the deceased had intrusted a considerable sum, denied the trust and refused to make restitution. Do you know what Garrick did? Arrayed in the attire of the dead, he played the ghost, and played it so well that the wretch, terrified beyond measure, made confession and restored the property."

"I never heard the anecdote; it is curious," said Reynolds, taking a pinch of snuff.

He extended the open box to the actress, but she refused it with a slight grimace.

"You make a mistake," he said; "this is some 37, Hardham's; our élégantes prefer it to any other." Then after a brief pause he added, "Your physiognomy is scarcely less changeable than Garrick's; you have laughed, you have wept; you have been gay, excited, mournful. Now, of all these expressions which have chased each other over your charming face—nay, do not blush; I am an old man—of all these varied expressions which is the veritable, the dominant one,—the one which expresses the character of your soul? As long as I fail to discover this expression in the model, so long is my brush paralyzed. I am obliged to seek until I find it. I have painted Garrick both in tragedy and comedy; Admiral Keppel, sword in hand, upon the point of giving the order to clear the decks for action; Kitty Fisher, at her toilet, since it was her profession to be beautiful and to please. I have represented Goldsmith writing the final pages of the 'Vicar' or the sweet verses of the 'Deserted Village'; Sterne, thinking of poor Maria's suffering or of the death of Lieut. Lefèvre. His wig was all awry and the rascal wanted to straighten it. 'Let it be as it is!' I said to him; 'if it is straight, you are no longer the author of 'Tristram Shandy.' When I paint a child I give it some playthings; a young mother, I surround her with her children. Notice this