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ANY years ago, at Costa Lupara, in Alassio, I made a drawing of the young daughter of one of the visitors. Her expression seemed at the same time to penetrate the future, to recall the past, and to contemplate herself with a pathetic sadness. The look revealed itself in the drawing, if anything, more intensely than it did in the girl herself.

A stupid maid, with a dust-brush, whisked out the sketch, and it never could be retrieved.

When I went up to Mount Desert Island, on the coast of Maine, to paint Mr. Ludington, I now and then caught an expression in his face that was unlike that of other men, and I instantly decided that the portrait would not be successful unless this personal look could be obtained. Mr. Ludington had other expressions, more in harmony with everyday events, any one of which might have been delineated with much more certainty and security than this fleeting vision of an inner life.

After enjoying a few gay and happy days in the seaside village, full of young people bent upon sport and merriment, I settled down to work. First making a careful drawing, I began to paint. The work went on almost mechanically for a few hours, when Mrs. Ludington came in and sat down in front of the canvas, on which now was an almost finished head. After a minute or two of silence, she said, "I wonder if you know what you have here?"