Such a pretty house it was, too, with so many flowers and vines around it.' 'And the picture--did it belong to the Englishman ?' Jerrie asked.
'Oh, no,' Marian replied: 'it did not seem to belong to anybody.

Mr.
Carter--that was the name of our landlord--said it was there in the wall when he took the house, which was then very small and low, with only two or three rooms.

He bought it because of the situation, which, though very quiet and pleasant, was so near the Kursaal that we could always hear the music without going to the garden.
'Yes,' Jerrie said again, with her head on one side, and her ear turned up, as if she were listening to some far-off, forgotten strains.

'Yes; and the picture was like me, you say--how like me ?' 'Every way like you,' Marian replied; 'except that the original must have been younger when it was taken--sixteen, perhaps--and she was smaller than you, and wore a peasant's dress, and was knitting on a bench under a tree, with the sunshine falling around her, and at a little distance a gentleman stood watching her.

But what is the matter, Miss Crawford?
Are you sick ?' Marian asked, suddenly, as she saw the bright color fade for an instant from Jerrie's face, leaving it deathly white, while Tom and Dick knocked their heads together in their efforts to get her a glass of water, which they succeeded in spilling into her lap.
'It is nothing,' Jerrie said, recovering herself quickly.