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“What artfulness!” said Mrs. Partington, as she
held her miniature in her hand, done in the highest style
of the daguerrean art. The features were radiant with
benevolence; the cap, close-fitted about her venerable
face, bore upon it the faded black ribbon, the memento
of ancient woe; the close-folded kerchief about her neck
was pinned with mathematical exactness, while from
beneath the cap border struggled a dark gray lock of
hair, like a withered branch in winter waving amid accumulated
snows. The specs and box were represented
upon the table by her side. The picture was like her,
and admiration marked every line of her countenance as
she spoke.

“What artfulness here is, and how nat'rally every liniment
is brought out! How nicely the dress is digested!”

She was talking to herself all the while.

“Why, this old black lutestring, that I have worn twenty
year for Paul, looks as good as new, only it is a little
too short-waisted by a great deal. O, Paul, Paul!”
sighed she, as she sat back in her chair and gazed, with
a tear in her eye, upon an old smoke-stained profile, cut
in black, that had hung for many a year above the
mantel-piece. “O, Paul! what a blessed thing this is,
where Art helps Natur, and Natur helps Art, and they
both help one another! How I wish I had your dear old
phismahogany done like this! I 'd prize it more than
gold or silver.”

p677-087

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She sat still, and looked alternately at the daguerreotype
and the profile, as if she hoped the profile would
speak to her; but it still looked rigidly forward, thrusting
out its huge outline of nose as if proud of it, and
then with a sigh she reclasped the case and deposited the
picture in the upper drawer of the old black bureau in
the corner. Ike was all the while burning holes through
a pine shingle with one of Mrs. Partington's best knitting-needles.