Literary Love-Letters and Other Stories

looking sometimes at a half-completed sketch, and sometimes at the blue stretch of water below the cliff. The conclusions were tha

wanted to work at that putty." He cast a contemptuous glance at a rough bust of his Cousin Della, the only thing he had attempted. As a solution of his hopeless p

on remarked, in a disappointed ton

ike some lunch to recuperate you from your labors." This was said a littl

a walk. Won't you come? It's such glorious weather and no fog," h

id any more attention to my existence than if I had been Jane, the woman who usually brings you

u would come," said th

a chance to kn

rced to accept invitations for long visits in uninteresting places. As a girl and a young woman, she had shown a delicate, retiring beauty that might have been made much of, and in spite of gray hair, thirty-five years, and a somewhat drawn look, arising from her discontent, one might discover sufficient traces of this fading beauty to idealize her. All this summer she had watched the wayward young artist with a keen interest in the fresh life he brought among

piration?" she venture

blacksmith, or a sailor, or something honest. I feel like a

f nature, she would have understood how indifferent Clayton was to her personally. He would have mad

rk is so brilliant,"

, and the theatres stole my music for the Pudding play, and the girls giggled over my sketches. And now, at twenty-six, I d

d, wisely, when they had reached a s

ried Clayton

ght to

solution, great panacea,"

ady you and m

ss she were poor, and in that case it wou

re courageously. "And a wife would

s in my soul. Yes, I know," he added, as he noticed her look of wonderment, "I am selfish and supremely egotistical. Every artist is; his only lookout, however, should be

tands art and the ends which the artist is after. She has the temperament, a superficial appreciat

you had had too much sym

g friends, kind women, etc., while I play the Protagonist, to tell me that I am all right, to go ahead. Do you suppose any one woman would be enough? What a great posture for an arm!" His sudden exclamation was called out by the attitude that Miss Marston had unconsciously assumed in the eagerness of her interest. She had thrown her hand ove

e superb in marble!" Miss

t you had given up modelling, or I would let you model my arm in ord

don't make me consistent. You will kee

l of his admonition. "You need the spur. It doesn't mak

the mouths

, literally. "Even if I am stupid and commonp

hat's my theory: an artist is a fund of concentrated, undistributed energy that has any number of possible outlets, but selects one. Mos

Marston, decisively. "

that conclusion-have

hat instant. Clayton, without feeling the absurdity of the comedy, rose docilely and followed her down the path

tement had evanesced. "The light will be too bad for work by the time we

me," he exclaimed, enthusiastically, "I have it. I will begin a great work-a modern Magdalen or something of that sort. We can use you in

ch a part of this interesting young man's plans, but in a moment she laughed calmly at the frank desire he expresse

ice. But you will have to make use of the

ned upon him. "We shall have the fresh morning light, and the cool and

f. You will find me