"
"Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management," said the
soft voice of the lady of the house.
"Management is a good thing," said the gentleman; "but there
was more than management here, Mrs. Randolph. It was uncommon,
upon my word! I suppose my wife came in for the wings, but
where did the _face_ come from?"
"Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, as he found his little daughter by
his side again, — "are you here?"
"Yes, papa."
Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself
there were no wings in the case.
"How do you like playing pictures?"
"I think I do not like them very much —" Daisy said, sedately,
nestling up to her father's side.
"Not? How is that? Your performance has been much approved."
Daisy said nothing. Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight
tremor in the little frame.
"Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?"
Dr. Sandford asked.
"I do not know what an allegory is, Dr. Sandford."
"What is the meaning of the representation, then, as you think
of it?"
"This last picture?"
"Yes."
"It is a trial of skill, Dr. Sandford."
The room was still darkened, and the glance of intelligence
and amusement that passed between her friend and her father,
their own eyes could scarcely catch.
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