CHAPTER SEVENTH.

A PORTRAIT.

One pleasant afternoon Emma came to ask if Frances might go with her to carry home some sewing her mother had finished.

Mrs. Morrison looked a little doubtful, but, before she could speak, Frances exclaimed: "Do please say yes, mother. It is a great lovely house, and I do so want to see it."

"What do you know about it?" asked her mother.

"Emma has told me. May I go? It is such a lovely day."

"I am not sure that it is quite the thing for two little girls to go so far alone."

"But we'll take care of each other, and—it seems to me that what you want to do is never the thing!" Frances said impatiently.

Her mother laughed; "I have known other persons who thought that. Who lives in this wonderful house?" she asked.

"Mrs. Marvin, but she is not at home now; there is no one there but the housekeeper," replied Emma.

"If I let you go you must promise not to stay any longer than is necessary for Emma's errand."

They both agreed eagerly to this, and Emma ran down to get ready.

"You mustn't turn into a little Bohemian, Wink," Mrs. Morrison said, kissing the rosy face under the big hat.

"I don't know what it is, so I guess I couldn't turn into it," laughed Frances, as she followed Emma.

The two children were in a gale of delight over their expedition, and, although they meant to be very dignified, found it impossible to walk more than a few steps without breaking into a skip.

"I wish my hair was like yours," Emma said, looking admiringly at her companion's waving brown locks.

"But braids aren't half so much bother. I have to wear mine this way because daddy likes it; and if you want to, you know, you can put your hair up on kids. That is what Gladys Bowen does; hers doesn't curl one bit."

"Gladys goes to our school, and I don't like her," remarked Emma.

"Why not? Don't you think she is pretty?"

"Yes; but she is so proud of herself. She doesn't like to go with me because my clothes aren't as nice as hers,—I know."

"She gets that from her mother," Frances said sagely. "Whenever I go there Mrs. Bowen asks me who made my dress or something."

"I know I don't have very pretty dresses, but my mother hasn't time," said Emma, rather sorrowfully.

"I think you always look nice, Emma, and I like you better than I do Gladys."

"Oh, Frances! do you really? Then I shan't mind," cried Emma.

She was supremely happy at having Frances for a companion on her walk, and at the prospect of showing her this wonderful house; but when at length they paused before the tall iron gate, she was seized with the fear that it might not seem very grand to one who had seen so much of the world.

Frances' critical eye was pleased, however; "I really think it does look like a palace," she said, with the air of having lived among palaces.

It was a somewhat imposing mansion, with a row of graceful columns across the front, and a broad flight of steps leading to the entrance. It stood in the midst of a beautiful green lawn on which were a few fine old trees and shrubs.

"Just wait till you see the inside," said Emma, delightedly, as they stood before the stately door; but alas! when it was opened the hall was seen all dismantled; evidently house-cleaning was going on.

After some hesitation the servant showed them into a room which was, like the hall, in disorder. It seemed to be a library, but the furniture was all covered, the floor was bare, and the sun streamed in through uncurtained windows. The most prominent object in the room was a picture which hung over the mantel, and this at once caught Frances' attention.

It was the portrait of a girl apparently about her own age, whose sunny eyes smiled down in the friendliest way. Her brown hair curled loosely over her shoulders; her dress, of some soft, silken brocade of warm, rich colors, was quaintly made and fell almost to her feet; her neck and arms were bare, and her dimpled hands clasped lightly before her. There was a grace and buoyancy in the pose which was very charming; Frances was enchanted.

"Isn't she lovely! Who is she, do you suppose?" she asked; but Emma could tell her nothing about it, she had never been in this room before.

"I believe she is like you, Frances," she said, looking critically at the picture.

"I am sure I am not half so pretty as that! She makes me think of something— I don't know exactly what," and Frances wrinkled her brow in a puzzled way. She was completely fascinated, and continued to gaze at the portrait all the while Emma was talking to the woman who came to see her about the work, hearing nothing till her own name caught her ear.

"It is some relative of Miss Frances," was what she heard, evidently in reply to a question from Emma.

As soon as they were on the street she inquired who Miss Frances was, and Emma said she thought she was Mrs. Marvin, the lady who owned the house. "She is coming home before long, and they are getting ready for her," she added.

"I should like to have that picture," said Frances, with a sigh. "Emma, do you know what a Bohemian is?"

"I know what the 'Bohemian Girl' is; it is music."

"It can't be that, for mother said father wouldn't like it if I turned into one."

As Frances was unbuttoning her shoes that night she suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it is the little girl in the golden doorway!

"What is?" her mother asked.

"I mean that is what the portrait reminded me of. It has just come into my head. Isn't it funny?"

"Almost any portrait of a little girl might suggest it, I should think," said Mrs. Morrison.

"I wish you could see her, mother. Do you think I can go again with Emma sometime? I do want to see her once more."

"I don't know, dear."

"Mother, is it being a Bohemian to want to go?"

Mrs. Morrison laughed. "Not exactly, Wink. It is difficult to explain, but a Bohemian is perhaps a person who habitually does what is not 'the thing.'"

"That must be fun," said Frances.

There was silence for a long time, then she asked, "Mother, aren't you glad a certain person is abroad?"

Mrs. Morrison looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?" she said.

"Oh, I was just thinking!"

"But what put it into your head to think of a certain person?"

"Well, the girl in the golden doorway always makes me think of him; and you know, mother, father said he didn't mind leaving us here because he was abroad."

"You have been drawing on your imagination, Wink, you can't have understood father; but now you must go to bed and not talk any more."