his mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which he
originated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness,
consulting which would be the best light. "You know I can scarcely
advise," I said; "I have never been familiar with this room. I should
like to put off, if you don't mind, till daylight."

"I think," he said, "that this would be the best place." It was on the
other side of the fireplace, on the wall which faced the windows,--not
the best light, I knew enough to be aware, for an oil-painting. When I
said so, however, he answered me with a little impatience, "It does not
matter very much about the best light; there will be nobody to see it but
you and me. I have my reasons--" There was a small table standing against
the wall at this spot, on which he had his hand as he spoke. Upon it
stood a little basket in very fine lace-like wicker-work. His hand must
have trembled, for the table shook, and the basket fell, its contents
turning out upon the carpet,--little bits of needlework, colored silks, a
small piece of knitting half done. He laughed as they rolled out at his
feet, and tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a chair, and
covered for a moment his face with his hands.

No need to ask what they were. No woman's work had been seen in the house
since I could recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and put them
back. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting was
something for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? It
had been left in the doing--for me.

"Yes, I think this is the best place," my father said a minute after, in
his usual tone.

We placed it there that evening with our own hands. The picture was