'Now, my own dear aunt Dorothea, do forgive me this once, and go on with your story.'
'When your poor father was quite a young man, my child, and was on one of his long autumnal visits to his friends in this city, he was rather intimate at times with a cousin of his, Ralph Winwood, who was about his own age,—a fine youth he was, too, Pierre.'
'I never saw him, aunt; pray, where is he now?' interrupted Pierre;—'does he live in the country, now, as mother and I do?'
'Yes, my child; but a far-away, beautiful country, I hope;—he's in heaven, I trust.'
'Dead,' sighed little Pierre—'go on, aunt.'
'Now, cousin Ralph had a great love for painting, my child; and he spent many hours in a room, hung all round with pictures and portraits; and there he had his easel and brushes; and much liked to paint his friends, and hang their faces on his walls; so that when all alone by himself, he yet had plenty of company, who always wore their best expressions to him, and never once ruffled him, by ever getting cross or ill-natured, little Pierre. Often, he had besought your father to sit to him; saying, that his silent circle of friends would never be complete, till your father consented to join them. But in those days, my child, your father was always in motion. It was hard for me to get him to stand still, while I tied his cravat; for he never came to anyone but me for that. So he was always putting off, and putting off cousin Ralph. "Some other time, cousin; not to-day;—tomorrow, perhaps;—or next week";—and so, at last cousin Ralph began to despair. But I'll catch him yet, cried sly cousin Ralph. So now he said nothing more to your father about the matter of painting him; but every pleasant morning kept his easel and brushes and everything in readiness; so as to be ready the first
