She let me see a portrait of her dead mother, an Irish lady raising dark eyelashes, whom she resembled.

I talked of the portrait to Heriot, and as I had privileges accorded to none of the other boys and could go to her at any hour of the day after lessons, he made me beg for him to have a sight of it.

She considered awhile, but refused.

On hearing of the unkind refusal, Heriot stuck his hands into his pockets and gave up cricketing.
We saw him leaning against a wall in full view of her window, while the boys crowded round him trying to get him to practise, a school-match of an important character coming off with a rival academy; and it was only through fear of our school being beaten if she did not relent that Julia handed me the portrait, charging me solemnly to bring it back.
I promised, of course.

Heriot went into his favourite corner of the playground, and there looked at it and kissed it, and then buttoned his jacket over it tight, growling when I asked him to return it.