Major Willoughby thought Maud had never appeared more beautiful than as
she moved about making her little preparations for the exhibition.
Pleasure heightened her colour; and there was such a mixture of frank,
sisterly regard, in every glance of her eye, blended, however, with
sensitive feeling, and conscious womanly reserve, as made her a
thousand times--measuring amounts by the young man's sensations--more
interesting than he had ever seen her. The lamp gave but an indifferent
light for a gallery, but it was sufficient to betray Maud's smiles, and
blushes, and each varying emotion of her charming countenance.

"Now, Bob," she said, opening her portfolio, with all her youthful
frankness and confidence, "you know well enough I am not one of those
old masters of whom you used to talk so much, but your own pupil--the
work of your own hands; and if you find more faults than you have
expected, you will have the goodness to remember that the master has
deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning--there--that is a
caricature of your own countenance, staring you in the face, as a
preface!"

"This is like, I should think--was it done from memory, dear Maud?"

"How else should it be done? All our entreaties have never been able to
persuade you to send us even a miniature. You are wrong in this, Bob"--
by no accident did Maud now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah
often did. There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the _Bob_,
that she could easily adopt; but the 'Robert' had a family sound that
she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature than Maud Meredith
did not exist--"You are wrong, Bob; for mother actually pines to
possess your picture, in some shape or other. It was this wish that
induced me to attempt these things."