'I saw a hand-organ and a lazy monkey, and a brass band, driving me frantic. It made me feel--oh, I can't tell you how I felt,' returned Polly, with a grimace, and putting up her hands to her delicate little ears.
'The music was bad, certainly; but I found plenty to admire in our walk.'
Polly opened her eyes. 'You are not serious, Aunt Milly.'
'Let me see: we went across the common, and then on. My pictures are very humble ones, Polly; but I framed at least half-a-dozen for my evening's refreshment.'
Polly drew herself up a little scornfully. 'I don't admire monkeys, Aunt Milly.'
'What sort of eyes have you, child?' replied Mildred, who had recovered her cheerfulness. 'Do you mean that you did not see that old blind man with the white beard, and, evidently, his little grand-daughter, at his knees, just before we crossed the common?'
'Yes; I noticed she was a pretty child,' returned Polly, with reluctant candour.
'She and her blue hood and tippet, and the great yellow mongrel dog at her feet, made a pretty little sketch, all by themselves; and then, when we went on a little farther, there was the old gipsy-woman, with a handsome young ne'er-do-weel of a boy. Let me tell you, Polly, Mr. Fabian would have made something of his brown skin and rags. Oh, what rags!'
'She was a horrid old woman,' put in Polly, rather crossly.
'Granted; but, with a clump of fir-trees behind her, and a bit of sunset-clouds, she made up a striking picture. After that we came on a flock of sheep. One of them had got caught in a furze-bush, and was bleating terribly. We stood looking at it for full a minute before the navvy kindly rescued it.'
'I was sorry for the poor animal, of course. But, Aunt Milly, I don't call that much of a picture.'
'Nevertheless, it reminded me of the one that hangs in my room. To my thinking it was highly suggestive; all the more, that it was an old sheep, and had such a foolish, confiding face. We are never too old to go astray,' continued Mildred, dreamily.
'Three pictures, at least we have finished now,' asked Polly, impatiently.
'Finished! I could multiply that number threefold! Why, there was the hay-stack, with the young heifers round it; and that red-tiled cottage, with the pigeons tumbling and wheeling round the roof, and the flower-girl asleep on my own doorstep, with the laburnum shedding its yellow petals on her lap, to the great delight of the poor sickly baby. Come, Polly; who made the most of their eyes this evening? Only clouds, dust, and wheel-ruts, eh?'