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- 14777
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
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- 14693
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- almost a quarter's income for some of the Apostles!"
"Four dollars, Pierre."
"I will tell thee now, Lucy--but first, how long does it take to
complete one portrait?"
"Two sittings; and two mornings' work by myself, Pierre."
"And let me see; what are thy materials? They are not very costly, I
believe. 'Tis not like cutting glass,--thy tools must not be pointed
with diamonds, Lucy?"
"See, Pierre!" said Lucy, holding out her little palm, "see; this
handful of charcoal, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a square of
paper:--that is all."
"Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a portrait."
"Only one-seventy-five, Pierre?"
"I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy. Thou must not
be extravagant. Look: if thy terms were ten dollars, and thou didst
crayon on trust; then thou wouldst have plenty of sitters, but small
returns. But if thou puttest thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou
must have thy cash right-down too--don't start so at that _cash_--then
not so many sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest."
"It shall be just as thou say'st, Pierre."
"Well, then, I will write a card for thee, stating thy terms; and put it
up conspicuously in thy room, so that every Apostle may know what he has
to expect."
"Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre," said Lucy, rising. "I rejoice
at thy pleasant and not entirely unhopeful view of my poor little plan.
But I must be doing something; I must be earning money. See, I have
eaten ever so much bread this morning, but have not earned one penny."
With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remainder of the one
only piece she had touched, and then would have spoken banteringly to
her; but she had slid away into her own room.
He was presently roused from the strange revery into which the
conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of Isabel's hand
upon his knee, and her large expressive glance upon his face. During all
the foregoing colloquy, she had remained entirely silent; but an
unoccupied observer would perhaps have noticed, that some new and very
strong emotions were restrainedly stirring within her.
"Pierre!" she said, intently bending over toward him.
"Well, well, Isabel," stammeringly replied Pierre; while a mysterious
color suffused itself over his whole face, neck, and brow; and
involuntarily he started a little back from her self-proffering form.
Arrested by this movement Isabel eyed him fixedly; then slowly rose, and
with immense mournful stateliness, drew herself up, and said: "If thy
sister can ever come too nigh to thee, Pierre, tell thy sister so,
beforehand; for the September sun draws not up the valley-vapor more
jealously from the disdainful earth, than my secret god shall draw me up
from thee, if ever I can come too nigh to thee."
Thus speaking, one hand was on her bosom, as if resolutely feeling of
something deadly there concealed; but, riveted by her general manner
more than by her particular gesture, Pierre, at the instant, did not so
particularly note the all-significant movement of the hand upon her
bosom, though afterward he recalled it, and darkly and thoroughly
comprehended its meaning.
"Too nigh to me, Isabel? Sun or dew, thou fertilizest me! Can sunbeams
or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they warm and water? Then sit
down by me, Isabel, and sit close; wind in within my ribs,--if so thou
canst,--that my one frame may be the continent of two."
"Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard," said Isabel, most
bitterly--"but do fine sayings always make fine deeds? Pierre, thou
didst but just now draw away from me!"
"When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back our arms,
Isabel; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer to thee."
"Well; all words are arrant skirmishers; deeds are the army's self! be
it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee.--Pierre."
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