good sense, that Charlie's remonstrances against the
counting-house, and his strong fancy for an artist's life, was
something quite new, and which Miss Patsey scarcely knew how to
answer. There was nothing in the least poetical or romantic about
Patsey Hubbard, who was all honest kindness and straight-forward
common sense. She had no feeling whatever for the fine arts;
never read a work of imagination; scarcely knew one tune from
another; and had never looked with pleasure at any picture, but
one, a portrait of her own respected father, which still occupied
the place of honour in their little parlour, nearly covering one
side of the wall. This painting, to speak frankly, was anything
but a valuable work of art, or a good likeness of the worthy
minister. The face was flat and unmeaning, entirely devoid of
expression or relief; the body was stiff and hard, like
sheet-iron, having, also, much the color of that material, so far
as it was covered by the black ministerial coat. One arm was
stretched across a table, conspicuous from a carrot-coloured
cloth, and the hand was extended over a pile of folios; but it
looked quite unequal to the task of opening them. The other arm
was disposed of in some manner satisfactory to the artist, no
doubt, but by no means easy for the spectator to discover, since
the brick-coloured drapery which formed the back-ground to the
whole, certainly encroached on the side where nature had placed
it. Such as it was, however, Miss Patsey admired this painting
more than any she had ever seen, and its gilt frame was always
carefully covered with green gauze, no longer necessary to
preserve the gilding, but rather to conceal its blackened lustre;
but Charlie's sister belonged to that class of amateurs who
consider the frame as an integral part of the work of art. It
was, perhaps, the most promising fact regarding any future hopes