the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”
“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that