The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry

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СКАЧАТЬ and wore gowns, and looked mysterious and awe-inspiring, like astrologers or alchemists.”

      “There's nothing mysterious about my uncle,” said Elias, laughing, “unless it be his prodigious learning; and nothing awe-inspiring, except his temper. That's pretty quick. He wears an ordinary black coat and white cravat, like a Protestant minister's. You'd take him for a Protestant minister if you should pass him in the street.”

      “And he isn't at all patriarchal or picturesque?”

      “Alas, no; not that I have been able to discover.”

      “Oh, dear; how disappointing!”

      After another little pause, Christine said: “I haven't any brothers or sisters, either; and my mother died when I was three years old; and my father is a great home-body, too. Isn't it strange that our lives should have been so much alike? Only, you're a man and an artist; and I'm a girl and have nothing to do but to keep house. I wish I loved housekeeping as you do painting. But I don't; I hate it.”

      “That's too bad. But then, it doesn't take up all your time, and it doesn't cause you such an endless deal of worry and discouragement as painting does. You have plenty of time left in which to read, and see your friends, and enjoy life.”

      “Oh, no, I don't. You have no idea how many miserable little things there are to be done. And we only keep one servant. And she's so stupid that I have to be standing over her all day long. It's like a regular business—almost.”

      She had thrown a good deal of feeling into these utterances; had emphasized them by bending forward, and lifting her face toward her hearer's; and by this time she was completely out of pose.

      Didn't she think she'd like to rest a little now? Elias asked.

      She thought she would like to, for a few minutes, she said; and getting up, she crossed over and looked at Elias's canvas. All she could see were a few straggling charcoal lines.

      “Oh,” she queried, “is that the way you begin?”

      “Yes; I must sketch every thing in in black, first.”

      “But how long will that take?”

      “That depends upon how often you let me come.”

      “Well, if you come every Sunday?”

      “Oh, it will take three or four weeks—may be more.”

      “And then, how long before the picture will be finished?”

      “I can't tell exactly; but if we only have one sitting a week, probably not till spring.”

      “Oh,” she said, and said it with an inflection which Elias construed to be that of disappointment.

      “Why, did you wish to have it finished earlier?” he asked.

      “Oh, no; I don't care about that. I wasn't thinking of that,” she answered, but still with an inflection which made Elias feel that her contentment had been disturbed. He wondered whether he had said any thing indiscreet, any thing to hurt or to offend her. He could remember nothing.

      She resumed her pose. He could not have told what it was, but there was something in her bearing which prompted him to ask: “Is the position uncomfortable?” and to urge: “Don't sit any more to-day, if you would rather not.”

      “Oh, no; the position isn't uncomfortable. I'd just as soon sit,” was her reply, in the same unhappy tone of voice.

      Now, what could the matter be? What had happened to annoy her?

      “Please, Miss Redwood,” Elias pleaded, “please be frank with me. Perhaps I am keeping you from something?”

      Her eyes were fixed dreamily upon the window-pane behind his shoulder.

      “I was only thinking,” she confessed in a slow, pensive manner, “of what a beautiful day it is, and that”—She stopped herself.

      “And that—”

      “That's all. Nothing else.”

      “Oh, yes, there was. Please tell me. And that—?”

      “And that—now the winter is upon us—that we shan't have many more like it. There.”

      “Ah, I see! And you were longing to be out of doors, enjoying it. No wonder.”

      She colored up and began protesting.

      “Oh, really, Mr. Bacharach; no, indeed—”

      “Oh, yes, you were. No use denying it. And so far as I'm concerned, I've done a good morning's work already. And, I propose that we go and join your father in the park—if you know where to find him?”

      “Oh, yes, I know where to find him. Shall I put on my things? One sitting, more or less—if it's going to take so very, very long—won't count, will it?”

      A few moments later they had entered the park, and were sauntering down a sunlit pathway. Christine's hair glowed like a web of fine flames. Roses bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She vowed that there had never before been such a delicious day. How soft the air was, and yet how crisp! How sweet it smelled! How exquisitely the leafless branches of the trees, gilded by the sunshine, were penciled against the deep blue of the sky! The sunshine transfigured every thing. What rich and varied colors it brought out upon the landscape! What reds, what purples, what yellows! Had Mr. Bacharach ever seen any thing equal to it? Was it not a keen pleasure merely to breathe, merely to exist, upon such a day? By and by they turned a corner, and came upon a bench.

      “Oh,” exclaimed Christine, halting abruptly, “he's not here.”

      “Who?” Elias asked.

      “Why, my father.”

      “Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten.”

      “This is his favorite bench. He always sits here. Now, what can have become of him?”

      “Perhaps he has walked on a little.”

      “I suppose he has. But he can't have gone far. He never does. We'll soon overtake him.”

      At the end of another quarter hour, however, they had not yet overtaken him.

      “I'm afraid we've missed him,” she said; “though it's very strange, because he never goes anywhere else, but just in this direction. I think we may as well give up the search. But I'm a little tired, and would you mind sitting down and resting for a moment before turning back?”

      “I should like nothing better; only, I must warn you that I haven't the remotest notion how we are to find our way out of here. The paths we have taken have been so crooked, I've entirely lost my reckoning.”

      “Ah, but I—I know the park by heart. I could find my way anywhere in it, blindfold, I think.”

      “Indeed? How did you get so well acquainted?”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ