Kenelm had been prepared to see a landscape, or a group, or anything
but what he did see: it was the portrait of Blanche when a kitten.

Little elevated though the subject was, it was treated with graceful
fancy. The kitten had evidently ceased from playing with the cotton
reel that lay between her paws, and was fixing her gaze intently on a
bulfinch that had lighted on a spray within her reach.

"You understand," said Lily, placing her hand on his arm, and drawing
him towards what she thought the best light for the picture; "it is
Blanche's first sight of a bird. Look well at her face; don't you see
a sudden surprise,--half joy, half fear? She ceases to play with the
reel. Her intellect--or, as Mr. Braefield would say, 'her
instinct'--is for the first time aroused. From that moment Blanche
was no longer a mere kitten. And it required, oh, the most careful
education, to teach her not to kill the poor little birds. She never
does now, but I had such trouble with her."

"I cannot say honestly that I do see all that you do in the picture;
but it seems to me very simply painted, and was, no doubt, a striking
likeness of Blanche at that early age."

"So it was. Lion drew the first sketch from life with his pencil; and
when he saw how pleased I was with it--he was so good--he put it on
canvas, and let me sit by him while he painted it. Then he took it
away, and brought it back finished and framed as you see, last May, a
present for my birthday."

"You were born in May--with the flowers."