" With these words he vanished; and they heard him soon
afterwards whistling his favorite "Drops of Brandy," in the rectory
garden.
"Cracked! cracked!" cried the doctor. "Dear old Valentine!"
"I'm afraid his principles are very loose," said Mrs. Joyce, whose
thoughts still ran on the unlucky professional allusion to Jezebel's
legs.
The next morning, when Mr. Blyth presented himself at the stables, and
went on with the portrait of the cover-hack, the squire had no longer
the slightest reason to complain of the painter's desire to combine in
his work picturesqueness of effect with accuracy of resemblance.
Valentine argued no longer about introducing "light and shade," or
"keeping the background subdued in tone." His thoughts were all with
the deaf and dumb child and Mrs. Peckover; and he smudged away
recklessly, just as he was told, without once uttering so much as a
word of protest. By the evening he had concluded his labor. The squire
said it was one of the best portraits of a horse that had ever been
taken: to which piece of criticism the writer of the present narrative
is bound in common candor to add, that it was also the very worst
picture that Mr. Blyth had ever painted.
On returning to Rubbleford, Valentine proceeded at once to the circus;
placing himself, as nearly as he could, in the same position which he
had occupied the night before.
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