How young it looked and smiling! There
was one particular miniature of him in the holy of holiest positions in the
centre of the writing-table--a real work of art, well painted on ivory. It
was mounted in a frame of fine pearls, and engraved with the name and date
at the back:
"Paul Verdayne--aged five years and three months."
It was a full-length picture of him standing next a great chair, in a blue
velvet suit and a lace turn-over collar, while curls of brightest gold fell
rippling to his neck--rather short bunchy curls which evidently would not
be repressed.
"Was I ever like that, mother?" he said.
And the Lady Henrietta, only too enchanted to expand upon this enthralling
subject, launched forth on a full description.
Like it! Of course! Only much more beautiful. No child had ever had such
golden curls, or such eyes or eye-lashes! No child had ever, in fact, been
able to compare with him in any way, or ever would! The Lady Henrietta's
delicate shell-tinted cheeks flushed rose with joy at the recollection.
"Darling mother," said Paul, as he kissed her, "how you loved me. And how
cold I have often been. Forgive me--"
Then he was silent while she fondled him in peace, his thoughts turning as
ever to his lady. She, too, probably, would be foolish, and tender, and
sweet over her son--and how his mother would love her grandchild.
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