“A grain of self-consciousness would spoil him,” said Wharton.

“Then men must be very different from women,” she replied.  “I will give you leave to paint me on every square inch of the church, walls and roof, and defy you to spoil any charm you think I have, if you will only not make me awkward or silly; and you may make me as self-conscious as Esther’s St. Cecilia there, only she calls it modesty.”

Catherine was so pulled about and put to such practical uses in art as to learn something by her own weary labors.  A quick girl soon picks up ideas when she hears clever men talking about matters which they understand.  Esther began to feel a little nervous.  Catherine took so kindly to every thing romantic that Wharton began to get power over her.  He had a queer imagination of his own, which she could not understand, but which had a sort of fascination for her.  She ran errands for him, and became a sort of celestial messenger about the church.  As for Wharton, he declared that she stood nearer nature than any woman he knew, and she was in sympathy with his highest emotions.  He let her ask innumerable questions, which he answered or not, as happened to suit his mood.  He paid no attention to Esther’s remonstrances at being deprived of her model, but whenever he wanted Catherine for any purpose, he sent for her, and left Esther to her own resources.  Catherine had her own reasons for being docile and for keeping him in good humor.  She started with the idea that she did not intend to be painted, if she could help it, as a first century ascetic, without color, and clothed in a hair-cloth wrapper; and having once begun the attempt to carry her own object, she was drawn on without the power to stop.

Her intimacy with Wharton began to make Esther uneasy, so that one day, when Strong came up, and, missing Catherine, asked what had become of her, she consulted him on the subject.

“Catherine has gone off with Mr. Wharton to inspect,” she said.  “He comes for her or sends for her every day.  What can I do about it?”

“Where is the harm?” asked Strong.  “If she likes to pass an hour or two doing that sort of thing, I should think it was good for her.”

“But suppose she takes a fancy to him?”

“Oh!  No woman could marry Wharton,” said Strong.  “He would forget her too often, and she would lose patience with him before he thought of her again.  Give her her head!  He will teach her more that is worth her knowing than she would learn in a life-time in Aunt Sarah’s parlor.”

“I wish I could give her something else to amuse her.”

“Well!” replied Strong.  “We will invent something.”  Catherine returned a few minutes later, and he asked her how she got on with the task-master, and whether he had yet recovered her favor.

“Since the beetle turned on him,” said Catherine, “we have got on like two little blind mice.  He has been as kind to me as though I were his mother; but why is he so mysterious?  He will not tell me his history.”