“A party!  But I never have anything to do with parties—­mamma’s parties—­Preston.”

“No.  But with this one I think you have.”

“How can I?” said Daisy.  She was very pleasantly unconcerned as yet, and only enjoying the morning and Preston and the trees and the sunshine.

“Why, little Daisy, I have got to furnish part of the entertainment; and I can’t do it without you.”

Daisy looked now.

“Aunt Felicia wants me to get up some tableaux.”

“Some what?” said Daisy.

“Tableaux.  Tableaux vivants.  Pictures, Daisy; made with living people.”

“What do you mean, Preston?”

“Why we will choose some pictures, some of the prettiest pictures we can find; and then we will dress up people to represent all the figures, and place them just as the figures are grouped in the engraving; and then they look like a most beautiful large painted picture.”

“But pictures do not move?”

“No more do the people.  They hold still and do not stir, any more than if they were not real.”

“I should think they would look like people though, and not like a picture,” said Daisy.  “No matter how still you were to keep, I should never fancy you were painted.”

“No,” said Preston laughing; “but you do not understand.  The room where the spectators are is darkened, and the lights for the picture are all set on one side, just as the light comes in the picture; and then it all looks just right.  And the picture is seen behind a frame too, of the folding doors or something.”

Daisy sat looking at Preston, a little curious but not at all excited.

“So I shall want your help, Daisy.”

“About what?”

“First, to choose what pictures we will have.  We must look over all the books of engravings in the house, and see what would do.  Shall we go at it?”

Daisy consented.  They repaired to the library and took position by a large portfolio of engravings.

“‘Fortitude’!  Capital!” cried Preston as he turned over the first sheet in the portfolio.  “Capital, Daisy!  That’s for you.  You would make an excellent ‘Fortitude.’”

“I!—­” said Daisy.

“Capital—­couldn’t be better.  This is Sir Joshua Reynolds’ ’Fortitude’—­and you will do for it wonderfully well.  You have half the look of it now.  Only you must be a little more stern.”

“Why must Fortitude look stern?” said Daisy.

“O, because she has hard work to do, I suppose.”

“What is Fortitude, Preston?”

“O Daisy, Daisy! are you going through life like that?  Why you’ll turn all your play into work.”

“Why?—­But what is it?”

“Fortitude?  Why it is, let me see,—­it is the power of endurance.”

“The power of bearing pain, Daisy,” said Mr. Randolph, who was walking through the room.

“I do not think Fortitude ought to look stern.”