good many people wondered, and others, chiefly of the more irrepressible
sex, were singularly concerned. Apparently one of these, one sultry
afternoon, stopped before the shadowed window of a photographer's; she
was a handsome, well-dressed woman, yet bearing a certain countrylike
simplicity that was unlike the restless smartness of the more urban
promenaders who passed her. Nevertheless she had halted before Mr.
Hamlin's picture, which Sophy had not yet dared to bring home and
present to him, and was gazing at it with rapt and breathless attention.
Suddenly she shook down her veil and entered the shop. Could the
proprietor kindly tell her if that portrait was the work of a local
artist?

The proprietor was both proud and pleased to say that IT WAS! It was the
work of a Miss Brown, a young girl student; in fact, a mere schoolgirl
one might say. He could show her others of her pictures.

Thanks. But could he tell her if this portrait was from life?

No doubt; the young lady had a studio, and he himself had sent her
sitters.

And perhaps this was the portrait of one that he had sent her?

No; but she was very popular and becoming quite the fashion. Very
probably this gentleman, who, he understood, was quite a public
character, had heard of her, and selected her on that account.

The lady's face flushed slightly. The photographer continued. The
picture was not for sale; it was only there on exhibition; in fact it
was to be returned to-morrow.