"Then I am very glad of it!" said the boy, dropping the weed, and clapping
his hands joyfully; "for then I hope you will always stay here, don't you,
mamma?--don't _you_, Mr. Vincent? Oh, _you_ do, I am sure, for I heard you
say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so red?"

His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question,
and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where
he found the food for the gold fishes.

Belinda, to Mr. Vincent's great relief, seemed not to take any notice of
the child's question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was
intently copying Westall's sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family,
and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour's name,
to many painful and some pleasing recollections. "What a charming woman,
and what a charming family!" said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the
drawing; "and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic
happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods
and goddesses, that ever were drawn!"

"Yes," said Belinda, "and how much more interesting this picture is to us,
from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real,
not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the
countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her,
are what they seem to be--the pride and pleasure of her life!"

"There cannot," exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, "be a more
delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not
feel what you can paint so well?"