Once, as she was rehearsing the history of a certain picture, I made my way out of the room, and catching sight of some pretty things through an open door at the end of the passage, I went in to see what I could see.
Some others were following me when the housekeeper spied them, and bustled up, angrily recalling us, for the room, as we found, was a private _boudoir_, and not one of those shown to the public.

In my brief glance, however, I had seen something which made me try to get some information out of the housekeeper, in spite of her displeasure.
"Who are those little girls in the picture by the sofa ?" I asked.
"Please tell me." "I gives all information in reference to the public rooms," replied the housekeeper, loftily, "as in duty bound; but the private rooms is not in my instructions." And nothing more could I get out of her to explain the picture which had so seized upon my fancy.
It was a very pretty painting--a modern one.

Just the heads and shoulders of two little girls, one of them having her face just below that of the other, whose little arms were round her sister's neck.

I knew them in an instant.

There was no mistaking that look of decision in the face of the protecting little damsel, nor the wistful appealing glance in the eyes of the other.