Full of this determination she carried it out during the afternoon, until the hour for Frank Beard’s caricatures; then, secure from fear of a sermon, she came gayly down and considered herself fortunate to secure a seat directly in front of the stand and in full view of the blackboard.  If you have never seen Frank Beard make pictures you know nothing about what a good time she had.  They were such funny pictures! —­just a few strokes of the magic crayon and the character described would seem to start into life before you, and you would feel that you could almost know what thoughts were passing in the heart of the creature made of chalk.  Eurie looked, and listened, and laughed.  The old deacon who thought the Sunday-school was being glorified too much had his exact counterpart among her acquaintances, so far as his looks were concerned.  The three troublesome Sunday-school scholars fairly convulsed her by their life-like appearance.  There was the little scamp of a boy who was revealed by the dozen to any one who took a walk down town toward the close of the day; the argumentative old man, with his nose pointing out a flaw in your reasoning or on the keen scent for a mistake; and the pert fourteen-year-old girl whose very nose, as it slightly turned upward, showed that she knew more than all the logicians and theologians in the world.

This entertainment was exactly in Eurie’s line.  If there was anything in the world that she was an adept at it was looking up weak points in the characters of other people; and when the silly girl with but two ideas—­one of them bows and the other beaux—­lived and breathed before her on the blackboard her delight reached its climax.

“She is the very picture of Nettie Arnold!” she whispered to Marion.  “When I go home I mean to tell her that her photograph was displayed at Chautauqua.  She is just vain enough to believe it!”

Still the fun went on.  Just a few bold, rapid strokes, and some caricature breathed before them, so real that the character was guessed before the explanation was given, and the ground rang with continued and overpowering roars of laughter.

Into the midst of this entertainment came Dr. Vincent, his face aglow with the exertion of hearty laughter, every feature of it expressive of his hearty appreciation of this hour of recreation and yet every feature alive and alert with a higher and more enduring feeling.

“Frank,” he said, laying a friendly hand on the artist’s arm, “our time is almost up.  Give us the symbol of the teacher’s work.”

There was an instant of rapid motion, a few skillful lines, and it needed no word of explanation to recognize the great family Bible.  “Now the symbol of the teacher’s hope,” and on one page of the open Bible there flashed an anchor.

“Now the symbol of his reward,” and lo, there rose up before them the solid wall, built brick by brick.  Dr. Vincent’s voice was almost husky with feeling, so suddenly had the play of his emotions changed, as he said:  “Now we want the foundation.”