“She has the children to educate, who are in daily contact with coarse sins, of which you know nothing—­of which she cannot help knowing.  It was written in an age when the morals of our class (more shame to us) were on the same level with the morals of her class now.  Let it alone.  I often have fancied I should edit a corrected edition of it.  When I do, you shall read that.”

“Now, Miss Harvey,” said Mellot, who had never taken his eyes off her face, “I want to turn schoolmaster, and give your children a drawing lesson.  Get your slates, all of you!”

And taking possession of the black board and a piece of chalk, Claude began sketching them imps and angels, dogs and horses, till the school rang with shrieks of delight.

“Now,” said he, wiping the board, “I’ll draw something, and you shall copy it.”

And, without taking off his hand, he drew a single line; and a profile head sprang up, as if by magic, under his firm, unerring touch.

“Somebody?” “A lady!” “No, ’taint; ’tis schoolmistress!”

“You can’t copy that; I’ll draw you another face.”  And he sketched a full face on the board.

“That’s my lady.”  “No, it’s schoolmistress again!” “No it’s not!”

“Not quite sure, my dears?” said Claude, half to himself.  “Then here!” and wiping the board once more, he drew a three-quarters face, which elicited a shout of approbation.

“That’s schoolmistress, her very self!”

“Then you cannot do anything better than try and draw it.  I’ll show you how.”  And going over the lines again, one by one, the crafty Claude pretended to be giving a drawing lesson, while he was really studying every feature of his model.

“If you please, my lady,” whispered Grace to Valencia; “I wish the gentleman would not.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, madam, I do not judge any one else:  but why should this poor perishing flesh be put into a picture?  We wear it but for a little while, and are blessed when we are rid of its burden.  Why wish to keep a copy of what we long to be delivered from?”

“It will please the children, Grace,” said Valencia, puzzled.  “See how they are all trying to copy it, from love of you.”

“Who am I?  I want them to do things from love of God.  No, madam, I was pained (and no offence to you) when I was asked to have my likeness taken on the quay.  There’s no sin in it, of course:  but let those who are going away to sea, and have friends at home, have their pictures taken:  not one who wishes to leave behind her no likeness of her own, only Christ’s likeness in these children; and to paint Him to other people, not to be painted herself.  Do ask him to rub it out, my lady!”

“Why, Grace, we were all just wishing to have a likeness of you.  Every one has their picture taken for a remembrance.”

“The saints and martyrs never had theirs, as far as I ever heard, and yet they are not forgotten yet.  I know it is the way of great people like you.  I saw your picture once, in a book Miss Heale had; and did not wonder, when I saw it, that people wished to remember such a face as yours:  and since I have seen you, I wonder still less.”