perishing flesh be put into a picture? We wear it but for a little
while, and are blessed when we are rid of its burden. Why wish to keep a
copy of what we long to be delivered from?"

"It will please the children, Grace," said Valencia, puzzled. "See how
they are all trying to copy it, from love of you."

"Who am I? I want them to do things from love of God. No, madam, I was
pained (and no offence to you) when I was asked to have my likeness
taken on the quay. There's no sin in it, of course: but let those who
are going away to sea, and have friends at home, have their pictures
taken: not one who wishes to leave behind her no likeness of her own,
only Christ's likeness in these children; and to paint Him to other
people, not to be painted herself. Do ask him to rub it out, my lady!"

"Why, Grace, we were all just wishing to have a likeness of you. Every
one has their picture taken for a remembrance."

"The saints and martyrs never had theirs, as far as I ever heard, and
yet they are not forgotten yet. I know it is the way of great people
like you. I saw your picture once, in a book Miss Heale had; and did not
wonder, when I saw it, that people wished to remember such a face as
yours: and since I have seen you, I wonder still less."

"My picture? where?"

"In a book--'The Book of Beauty,' I believe they called it."

"My dear Grace," said Valencia, laughing and blushing, "if you ever
looked in your glass, you must know that you are quite as worthy of a