The boy turned to the table, and took a sheet of paper from the
drawer. For an hour, perhaps, neither of these curious friends spoke
a word, but at the end of that time Uncle John arose and knocked the
ashes from his pipe. Kenneth did not notice him. The man approached
the table and looked over the boy's shoulder, uttering an exclamation
of surprise. Upon the paper appeared a cleverly drawn pencil sketch
of Patricia lying in her bed, a faint smile upon her face and her big
blue eyes turned pleasantly upon a shadowy form that stood beside her
holding her hand. The likeness was admirable, and if there were faults
in the perspective and composition Uncle John did not recognize them.
He gave a low whistle and turned thoughtfully away, and the young
artist was so absorbed that he did not even look up.
Strolling away to the stables, Uncle John met old Donald, who
enquired:
"How is Miss Patsy this morning, sir?" It was the name she had given,
and preferred to be called by.
"She's doing finely," said Uncle John.
"A brave girl, sir!"
"Yes, Donald."
"And the boy?"
"Why, he seems changed, in some way, Donald.
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