could only speak and tell us just what he saw in the room where they were
painting him--what he had for breakfast, for instance--what those dear
little ridiculous waistcoats, with all their flowery embroidery, cost a
yard, say--yes, yes, and what book that is--and who gave him the hoop--"

He rattled on. Never in Hope's lifetime had such sounds of gay speech
been heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved parlor. They seemed to
light it up. The rapid talk bubbled like music.

"Hoop and book--book and hoop! Oh yes. Good boy, very good boy," said
Abel, laughing. "I should think it was a portrait of the young Dr.
Peewee--the wee Peewee, Miss Hope," said the audacious youth, sliding,
as it were, unconsciously and naturally into greater familiarity. "Ah! I
know you know all his sermons by heart, for you never look away from him.
What on earth are they all about?"

What a contrast to Gabriel's awkward silence of the moment before! Such a
handsome face! such a musical voice!

In the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating outside:

"Don't, Sir, don't! You'll--you'll--something will happen, Sir."

There was a moment's scuffling and trampling, and Christopher Burt,
restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The old man was white with
wrath. He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand and
arm.

He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the dining-room
to take a little trip to the West Indies, he had heard voices in the