even artistic.  The little angel herself was not in full light; it was through a shade of gloom that her grave face of concern looked down upon the game on the chess-board.  Truly Daisy looked concerned and grave.  She thought she did not like to play such things as this.  One of the figures below her was so very wicked and devilish in its look; and Hamilton leaned over the pieces on the board with so well-given an expression of doubt and perplexity,—­his adversary’s watch was so intent,—­and the meaning of the whole was so sorrowfully deep; that Daisy gazed unconsciously most like a guardian angel who might see with sorrow the evil one getting the better over a soul of his care.  For it was real to Daisy.  She knew that the devil does in truth try to bewitch and wile people out of doing right into doing wrong.  She knew that he tries to get the mastery of them; that he rejoices every time to sees them make a “false move;” that he is a great cunning enemy, all the worse because we cannot see him, striving to draw people to their ruin; and she thought that it was far too serious and dreadful a thing to be made a play of.  She wondered if guardian angels did really watch over poor tempted souls and try to help them.  And all this brought upon Daisy’s face a shade of awe, and sorrow, and fear, which was strangely in keeping with her character as an angel, and very singular in its effect on the picture.  The expressions of pleasure and admiration which had burst from the company in the drawing-room at the first sight of it, gradually stilled and ceased; and it was amid a profound and curious silence and hush that the curtain was at length drawn upon the picture.  There were some people among the spectators not altogether satisfied in their minds.

“How remarkable!” was the first word that came from anybody’s lips in the darkened drawing-room.

“Very remarkable!” somebody else said.  “Did you ever see such acting?”

“It has all been good,” said a gentleman, Mr. Sandford; “but this was remarkable.”

“Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management,” said the soft voice of the lady of the house.

“Management is a good thing,” said the gentleman; “but there was more than management here, Mrs. Randolph.  It was uncommon, upon my word!  I suppose my wife came in for the wings, but where did the face come from?”

“Daisy,” said Mr. Randolph as he found his little daughter by his side again,—­“are you here?”

“Yes, papa.”

Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself there were no wings in the case.

“How do you like playing pictures?”

“I think I do not like them very much—­” Daisy said sedately, nestling up to her father’s side.

“Not?  How is that?  Your performance has been much approved.”

Daisy said nothing.  Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight tremor in the little frame.

“Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?” Dr. Sandford asked.