It was a very pretty painting--a modern one. Just the heads and
shoulders of two little girls, one of them having her face just below
that of the other, whose little arms were round her sister's neck. I
knew them in an instant. There was no mistaking that look of decision
in the face of the protecting little damsel, nor the wistful appealing
glance in the eyes of the other. The artist had caught both most
happily; and though the fair locks I had admired were uncovered, I
knew my little ladies of the beaver bonnets again.
Having failed to learn anything about them from the housekeeper, I
went to old Giles and asked him the name of the gentleman to whom the
place belonged.
"St. John," he replied.
"I suppose he has got children?" I continued.
"Only one living," said old Giles. "They do say he've buried six, most
on 'em in galloping consumptions. It do stand to reason they've had
all done for 'em that gold could buy, but afflictions, sir, they be as
heavy on the rich man as the poor; and when a body's time be come it
ain't outlandish oils nor furrin parts can cure 'em."
I wondered which of the quaint little ladies had died, and whether
they had taken her to "furrin parts" before her death; and I thought
if it were the grey-eyed little maid, how sad and helpless her little
sister must be.
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