“Guess not,” he would reply laughingly, “I can’t see how Hal could get on without me, and I, in my turn, need John.  What a splendid fellow he is!  They all like him around us here, and I believe I shall sell out the mill to him and buy another farm to take care of.  He handles logs as easily as if they were matches.  He is a perfect giant in strength.”

“Yes, I know, Ben, but he never will live in a saw-mill.  John is destined to be a public man; he will have calls and by and bye will stand in the high places and pour forth his eloquence.  He may buy a saw-mill, but he will never keep himself in it, no matter how hard he tries.”

“So my cake is all dough, you think, so be it, sister mine;” and baby Emily received a bear hug from Uncle Ben, who, a moment later, was walking thoughtfully over the hill.

The eighteenth of March was a cold day, extraordinarily so, tempestuous and stormy.  Louis had been in Boston three days, and we thought the winds were gathering a harsh welcome for his return.  His visits to Boston were getting to be quite frequent nowadays, for he had found some warm friends there, who had introduced themselves by letter, and now they were making united efforts to found a home for children,—­foundlings who were to be kept and well cared for, until opportunities were presented to place them with kind people in good homes.  He was getting on wonderfully, and I could hardly wait for the news he would bring to us.

He came at last, and with him an immense square package looking in shape very like a large mirror or a painting, and I wondered what it could be.  Baby Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were entwined around his neck.

“Now, now, little lady,” said Louis, “go to thy royal mother, I have something to show thee,” and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did so: 

“Companion pieces, my life’s saving angels—­behold yourself, my Emily, see my fairy mother,” and sure enough there we were.  A glance at Clara caused me to exclaim: 

“Wilmur Benton painted them.”

“Yes, both,” he replied.  “Are they not beautiful?”

“Mine is not, I am sure, Louis; but your mother’s,—­oh, how lovely it is, and as natural as life!  It must be the one to which Mary referred.”

“It is, my Emily.  I secured it long ago, and Mr. Benton has been a long time at work on yours.  He is sadly afflicted, and does not look like the same man.  His wife is dead, and I think he will not himself stay long.  I have been to see him always when in Boston, and would have told you all before, had I not feared you might, by getting hold of one thread, find another; Hal knows all about it.  But see, Emily, just see yourself as you are.  I told you your eyes should speak from the canvas, and is it not as well as if my own hand had held the brush?”

I looked the words I could not say, and wondered how it came that this likeness should have been painted without my being before the artist.  It was years since Wilmur Benton left us, and the picture represented me at my present age, I thought, and I asked: