“ISN’T he lovely?” asked Miss Henderson, as we three stood in front of Charlie’s portrait, which had just come from the artist’s hand. “He has such great expressive eyes, so soft, and yet so full of intelligence. The artist has caught the very expression. I think I never saw a more beautiful boy.”

“I think I never saw a greater nuisance,” said Miss Maylie, speaking with a good deal of energy and with a slight frown on her face, as though some unpleasant memory was stirred by the sight of the lovely face in the frame. We both turned and looked at her in surprise.

“Nuisance!” repeated Miss Henderson. “Why, what can you mean? I have heard that his character is as lovely as his face. He is one of the most generous little fellows, always dividing his goodies with the children.”

“Oh! I don’t doubt it,” said Miss Maylie; “but there are other traits in children to be sought after besides that of dividing their goodies.” Then she laughed, as if half-ashamed of the warmth of her manner, and said: “I’ve been a recent victim to one of his habits, and feel somewhat deeply, perhaps. I had an important engagement with his mother yesterday—a business matter for which I had asked an interview—and told her I was pressed for time, and had but a half-hour. I suppose we had been together about two minutes when the door opened without the ceremony of a knock, and Charlie appeared to ask if he might go over to Uncle Harry’s. He was told that he could not, it looked too much like rain; and he argued the matter, assuring his mother that the wind had changed and was blowing from the west; that the cook said it was not going to rain any more; that he would put on his rubbers and bundle up, and I don’t know what else. He was listened to patiently by his mother, and impatiently by me, for my precious half-hour was slipping away. He shut the door at last with a frown on his face which, if it had been painted, would have made this picture much less beautiful, but I am afraid more natural.

“It was certainly not five minutes before he was back, and this time it was, ‘Mamma, may I call Jerry to bring in the kittens?’

“‘O, no, dear! not this afternoon; you are dressed for dinner, you know.’

“‘That won’t make any difference; I won’t soil my clothes. The kittens haven’t been out in the mud. Do, mamma, let me.’

“‘No, Charlie; I do not want them in the parlor, you know.’

“‘Then I’ll go to the kitchen and play with them; Jane won’t care.’

“‘Yes, Jane cares very much; the kittens annoy her. Charlie will have to get along without them this afternoon.’

“Another slam to the door, with the scowl deepened. But we were by no means to be left in peace. I was just in the midst of the most intricate part of my business explanation, when Charlie arrived again. Now he was hungry; could not wait another minute, and wanted some bread and butter and syrup, and a piece of cake and a glass of milk. It was carefully explained to him that dinner would be served within the hour, and that syrup was not good for him, the doctor said—to which he replied that he did not care what the old doctor said—and that cake would be given him at the table when it was passed to the others. To each of these explanations he returned an answer which had to be answered, and when all was settled, he began over again to coax for something to eat! The fourth time he came he wanted the gas lighted in the library, and the fifth he wanted a certain great book which he could not lift placed conveniently for him to look at the pictures. When at last even his mother felt the strain on her patience and told him he must run away and not interrupt her again, he burst into a loud howl, and slammed the door after him so that my nerves all shivered at the jar.

“I must say it would be difficult for me to admire his face to-day; my annoyances are too recent. Seven times during a single half-hour to be interrupted by a little boy, when you are trying to transact important business with his mother, has spoiled his face for me. If he had wanted one single thing which it was important to have at that moment, it would have made a difference.”

“They all seemed important to him, I suppose,” said gentle Miss Henderson, who always tried to apologize for everybody.

“Yes, they did,” said Miss Maylie; “that is just the trouble; he evidently considered himself a very important person, and thought that his mother should leave her business and her caller and attend to him. I should call him a spoiled child.”

Myra Spafford.