The dress of pearly cashmere was cut in the style usually denominated “infant waist,” and fully exposed the dazzling whiteness and dimpling roundness of the neck and shoulders; while the short puffed sleeves showed admirably the fine modelling of the arms.

Walking away to the easel, Mr. Palma looked back, and critically contemplated the effect; and he acknowledged it was the fairest picture his fastidious eyes had ever rested on.

He put one hand inside his vest, and stood regarding the girl, with mingled feelings of pride in “Erle Palma’s ward,” and an increasing interest in the reticent calm-eyed child, which had first dawned when he watched her asleep in the railroad car.  It was no easy matter to stir his leaden sympathies, save in some selfish ramification, but once warmed and set in motion they proved a current difficult to stem.

In a low voice the artist said, as he selected some brushes from a neighbouring stand: 

“How old is she?  Her features have a singularly infantile delicacy and softness, but the eyes and lips seem to belong to a much older person.”

“Regina, have you not entered upon your sixteenth year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe, Mr. Palma, it is the loveliest living face I ever saw.  It is so peculiar, so intensely—­what shall I say?—­prophet-eyed.”

“Yes, I believe that is the right word.  When she looks steadily at me she often reminds me of a Sibyl.”

“But is this her usual, every-day expression?”

“Rather sadder than customary, I think.”

He went back to the group, and, standing in front of his ward, looked gravely down in her upturned face.

“Could you contrive to appear a little less solemn?”

She forced a smile, but he made an impatient gesture.

“Oh, don’t!  Anything would be better than that dire conflict between the expression of your mouth, and that of your eyes.  Have you any hermetically sealed pleasant thoughts hidden behind that smooth brow, that you could be prevailed upon to call up for a few moments, just long enough to cast a glimmer of sunshine over your face?  I think you once indignantly denied ever indulging in the folly of possessing a sweetheart, but perhaps you have really entertained more affaires de coeur than you choose to confide to such a grim, iron guardian as yours?  Possibly you may cherish cheerful memories of the kind-hearted young missionary, whose chances of hastening to heaven, per Sepoy passport, via Delhi route, seem at times to distress you?  Does he ever write you?”

“His mother has written to me twice since she reached India, and once enclosed a note from him; but although she said he had written, and I hoped for a letter, none has come.”

He noted the quick flutter of her lip, and the shadow that crept into her eyes.

“Then he went away with the expectation that you would correspond with him?”