His answer, expected and despaired of, came
three weeks later.
It was early in October one rainy Friday afternoon. Helena and David
were in the dining-room. She had helped him with his lessons,--for it
was Dr. Lavendar's rule that Monday's lessons were to be learned on
Friday; and now they had come in here because the old mahogany table
was so large that David could have a fine clutter of gilt-edged
saucers from his paint-box spread all around. He had a dauby tumbler
of water beside him, and two or three _Godey's Lady's Books_
awaiting his eager brush. He was very busy putting gamboge on the
curls of a lady whose petticoats, by a discreet mixture of gamboge and
Prussian blue, were a most beautiful green.
"Don't you think crimson-lake is pretty red for her lips?" Helena
asked, resting her cheek on his thatch of yellow hair.
"No, ma'am," David said briefly; and rubbed on another brushful.
Helena put an eager arm about him and touched his ear with her lips;
David sighed, and moved his head. "No; I wasn't going to," she
reassured him humbly; it was a long time since she had dared to offer
the "forty kisses." It was then that Sarah laid the mail down on the
table; a newspaper and--Lloyd Pryor's letter.
Helena's start and gasp of astonishment were a physical pang. For a
long time afterwards she could not bear the smell of David's water-
colors; gamboge, Chinese white and Prussian blue made her feel almost
faint.
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