Really, mother, I can't sit any more. I'm that stiff!-and as cold as anything.'So said Miss Bella Morrison, as she rose from her seat with an affected yawn and stretch. Inspeaking she looked at her mother, and not at the painter to whom she had been sitting fornearly two hours. The young man in question stood embarrassed and silent, his palette onhis thumb, brush and mahlstick suspended. His eyes were cast down: a flush had risen inhis cheek. Miss Bella's manner was not sweet; she wished evidently to slight somebody, and the painter could not flatter himself that the somebody was Mrs. Morrison, the onlyother person in the room beside the artist and his subject. The mother looked up slightly, and without pausing in her knitting-'It's no wonder you're cold, ' she said, sharply, 'whenyou wear such ridiculous dresses in this weather.'It was now the daughter's turn to flush; she coloured and pouted. The artist, John Fenwick, returned discreetly to his canvas, and occupied himself with a fold of drapery.'I put it on, because I thought Mr. Fenwick wanted something pretty to paint. And as heclearly don't see anything in me!'-she looked over her shoulder at the picture, with ashrug of mock humility concealing a very evident annoyance-'I thought anyway he mightlike my best frock.''I'm sorry you're not satisfied, Miss Morrison, ' said the artist, stepping back from his canvasand somewhat defiantly regarding the picture upon it. Then he turned and looked at thegirl-a coarsely pretty young woman, very airily clothed in a white muslin dress, of whichthe transparency displayed her neck and arms with a freedom not at all in keeping with thenipping air of Westmoreland in springtime-going up to his easel again after the look toput in another touch.As to his expression of regret, Miss Morrison tossed her head.'It doesn't matter to me!' she declared. 'It was father's fad, and so I sat. He promised me, if Ididn't like it, he'd put it in his own den, where my friends couldn't see it. So I really don'tcare a straw!''Bella! don't be rude!' said her mother, severely. She rose and came to look at the picture.Bella's colour took a still sharper accent; her chest rose and fell; she fidgeted an angry foot.'I told Mr. Fenwick hundreds of times, ' she protested, 'that he was making my upper lipmiles too long-and that I hadn't got a nasty staring look like that-nor a mouth like that-nor-nor anything. It's-it's too bad!'The girl turned away, and Fenwick, glancing at her in dismay, saw that she was on the pointof indignant tears.Mrs. Morrison put on her spectacles. She was a small, grey-haired woman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, from which all smiles seemed to have long departed. Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden anxieties-fears grown habitual and watchful; and whenshe moved or spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, as though in all directions shewas afraid of what she might touch, of possibilities she might se