fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped, lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased, yet earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers—too deeply absorbed in each other to notice her.
I had scarcely settled to my work—which, however, wanted but a few touches to the finishing—when the sportsmen passed the window on their return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash, and sprang in, and set himself before my picture.
"Very pretty, i'faith!" said he, after attentively regarding it for a few seconds—"and a very fitting study for a young lady—Spring just opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just ripening into womanhood—and hope just verging on fruition. She's a sweet creature! but why didn't you make her black hair?"
