Mrs. Sandford was laughing at him, and in fact there was a good deal of hilarity and some romping before the actors in the tableau could be settled in their places.

“Don’t keep us long,” said Preston.  “I never knew before what an uninteresting thing a featherbed is—­when you are obliged to hold it in your arms.  Everything in its place, I find.  I used to have a good opinion of them.”

Daisy ran back to the drawing-room, and was utterly struck with wonder at the picture over which all this fun had been held.  It was beautiful, she thought.  The two children lay so naturally asleep, one little bare foot peeping out from under the coverings; and the grim faces that scowled at them over the featherbed with those strange hats overshadowing, made such a contrast; and they were all so breathlessly still, and the lights and shadows were so good; Daisy was disposed to give her verdict that there never was a play like this play.  The “Princes in the Tower” was greatly applauded.

“Have you asked about my picture?” said Nora, who stood beside Daisy.

“No, I have not had a chance.”

“Do, Daisy!  I want that to be the last.”

Daisy thought she was unreasonable.  Why should Nora have the best place, if it was the best.  She was not pleased with her.

The next picture was Marie Antoinette; and that drew down the house.  Frederica Fish had nothing to do but to stand as she was put, and Mrs. Sandford had seen to it that she stood right; another person might have done more in the picture, but that was all that could be got from Frederica.  Her face was coldly impassive; she could come no nearer to the expression of the indignant queen.  But Preston’s old woman, and Theresa’s pretty young French girl; one looking as he had said, with eyes of coarse fury, the other all melting with tenderness and reverent sympathy; they were so excellent that the company were delighted.  Frederica’s handkerchief, it is true, hung daintily in her fingers, shewing all the four embroidered corners; Mrs. Sandford had not seen it till it was just too late; and Preston declared afterwards the “fury” in his face was real and not feigned as he glared at her.  But the company overlooked the handkerchief in favour of the other parts of the picture; and its success was perfect.

“Alfred in the neat-herd’s cottage” followed next, and would have been as good; only that Nora, whose business it was to blow her cheeks into a full moon condition over the burnt cakes, would not keep her gravity; but the full cheeks gave way every now and then in a broad grin which quite destroyed the effect.  Preston could not see this, but Daisy took her friend to task after it was over.  Nora declared she could not help it.

“You don’t know how it felt, Daisy, to keep my cheeks puffed out in that way.  I couldn’t do it; and whenever I let them go, then I couldn’t help laughing.  O, Daisy! is my picture to be the last?”