“My picture? where?”

“In a book—­’The Book of Beauty,’ I believe they called it.”

“My dear Grace,” said Valencia, laughing and blushing, “if you ever looked in your glass, you must know that you are quite as worthy of a place in ‘The Book of Beauty’ as I am.”

Grace shook her head with a serious smile.  “Every one in their place, madam.  I cannot help knowing that God has given me a gift:  but why, I cannot tell.  Certainly not for the same purpose as He gave it to you for,—­a simple country girl like me.  If He have any use for it, He will use it, as He does all His creatures, without my help.  At all events it will not last long; a few years more, perhaps a few months, and it will be food for worms; and then people will care as little about my looks as I care now.  I wish, my lady, you would stop the gentleman!”

“Mr. Mellot, draw the children something simpler, please;—­a dog or a cat.”  And she gave Claude a look which he obeyed.

Valencia felt in a more solemn mood than usual as she walked home that day.

“Well,” said Claude, “I have here every line and shade, and she cannot escape me.  I’ll go on board and paint her right off from memory, while it is fresh.  Why, here come Scoutbush and the Major.”

“Miss Harvey,” said Scoutbush, trying, as he said to Campbell, “to look as grand as a sheep-dog among a pack of fox-hounds, and very thankful all the while he had no tail to be bitten off”—­“Miss Harvey, I—­we—­ have heard a great deal in praise of your school; and so I thought I should like to come and see it.”

“Would your lordship like to examine the children?” says Grace, curtseying to the ground.

“No—­thanks—­that is—­I have no doubt you teach them all that’s right, and we are exceedingly gratified with the way in which you conduct the school.—­I say Val,” cried Scoutbush, who could support the part of patron no longer, “what pretty little ducks they are, I wish I had a dozen of them!  Come you here!” and down he sat on a bench, and gathered a group round him.

“Now, are you all good children?  I’m sure you look so!” said he, looking round into the bright pure faces, fresh from Leaven, and feeling himself the nearer heaven as he did so.  “Ah!  I see Mr. Mellot’s been drawing you pictures.  He’s a clever man, a wonderful man, isn’t he?  I can’t draw you pictures, nor tell you stories, like your schoolmistress.  What shall I do?”

“Sing to them, Fred!” said Valencia.

And he began warbling a funny song, with a child on each knee, and his arms round three or four more, while the little faces looked up into his, half awe-struck at the presence of a live lord, half longing to laugh, but not sure whether it would be right.

Valencia and Campbell stood close together, exchanging looks.

“Dear fellow!” whispered she, “so simple and good when he is himself!  And he must go to that dreadful war!”