What I wrote seemed like a photograph—not a portrait. There is something in Dean that is beyond me.
“Dean took a picture of me the other day with his new camera, but he wasn’t pleased with it.
“‘It doesn’t look like you,’ he said, ‘but of course one can never photograph starlight.’
“Then he added, quite sharply, I thought,
“‘Tell that young imp of a Teddy Kent to keep your face out of his pictures. He has no business to put you into every one he draws.’
“‘He doesn’t!’ I cried. ‘Why, Teddy never made but the one picture of me—the one Aunt Nancy stole.’
“I said it quite viciously and unashamed, for I’ve never forgiven Aunt Nancy for keeping that picture.
“‘He’s got something of you in every picture,’ said Dean stubbornly—‘your eyes—the curve of your neck—the tilt of your head—your personality. That’s the worst—I don’t mind your eyes and curves so much, but I won’t have that cub putting a bit of your soul into everything he draws. Probably he doesn’t know he’s doing it—which makes it all the worse.’
“‘I don’t understand you,’ I said, quite haughtily. ‘But Teddy is wonderful—Mr. Carpenter says so.’
“‘And Emily of New Moon echoes it! Oh, the kid has talent—he’ll do something some day if his morbid mother doesn’t ruin his life. But let him keep his pencil and brush off my property.’
“Dean laughed as he said it. But I held my head high. I am not anybody’s ‘property,’ not even in fun. And I never will be.
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“Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace and Uncle Oliver were all here this afternoon. I like Uncle Oliver, but I am not much fonder of Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace than I ever was. They held some kind of family conclave in the Cousin parlour with Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Laura. Jimmy was allowed in, but I was excluded, although I
