She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. ’ ‘I like that,’ Gerald protested.
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