Aunt Sukie's convulsions and our torch light hunt for ghosts were novel events in my experience, and they acted as anything but a sedative.

The unpacking finished, I settled myself in an easy chair before the fire and fell to studying the portrait.

It was a huge canvas in the romantic fashion of Romney, with a landscape in the background.
The girl was dressed in flowing pink drapery, a garden hat filled with roses swinging from her arm, a Scotch collie with great lustrous eyes pressed against her side.

The pose, the attributes, were artificial; but the painter had caught the spirit.

Nannie's face looked out of the frame as I remembered it from long ago.