“Please rub me all out, Mr. Wharton,” said she; “and make Esther begin again.  I am sure she will do it better the next time.”

Wharton was quite ready to find an excuse for pleasing her.  If it was at times a little annoying to have two women in his way whom he could not control as easily as ordinary work-people, he had become so used to the restraint as not to feel it often, and not to regard it much.  Esther thought he need not distress himself by thinking that he regarded it at all.  Had not Catherine been so anxious to appear as the most docile and obedient of hand-maids besides being the best-tempered of prairie creatures, she would long ago have resented his habit of first petting, then scolding, next ignoring, and again flattering her, as his mood happened to prompt.  He was more respectful with Esther, and kept out of her way when he was moody, while she made it a rule never to leave her own place of work unless first invited, but Catherine, who was much by his side, got used to ill-treatment which she bore with angelic meekness.  When she found herself left forgotten in a corner, or unanswered when she spoke, or unnoticed when she bade him good-morning, she consoled herself with reflecting that after every rudeness, Wharton’s regard for her seemed to rise, and he took her more and more into his confidence with every new brutality.

“Some day he will drag you to the altar by the hair,” said Esther; “and tell you that his happiness requires you to be his wife.”

“I wish he would try,” said Catherine with a little look of humor; “but he has one wife already.”

“She mysteriously disappeared,” replied Esther.  “Some day you will find her skeleton, poor thing!”

“Do you think so?” said Catherine gravely.  “How fascinating he is!  He makes me shiver!”

When Catherine begged to have every thing begun again, Wharton hesitated.  Esther’s work was not to his taste, but he was not at all sure that she would do equally well if she tried to imitate his own manner.

“You know I wanted Miss Dudley to put more religious feeling and force into her painting,” said he, “but you all united and rode me down.”

“I will look like a real angel this time,” said Catherine.  “Now I know what it is you want.”

“I am more than half on her side,” went on Wharton.  “I am not sure that she is wrong.  It all comes to this:  is religion a struggle or a joy?  To me it is a terrible battle, to be won or lost.  I like your green dress with the violets.  Whose idea was that?”

“Petrarch’s.  You know I am Laura.  St. Cecilia has the dress which Laura wore in church when Petrarch first saw her.”

“No!” said Wharton, after another pause, and long study of the two figures.  “Decidedly I will not rub you out; but I mean to touch up Petrarch.”

“O!  You won’t spoil the likeness!”

“Not at all!  But if I am going to posterity by your side I want some expression in my face.  Petrarch was a man of troubles.”