And
would not she herself come to love the work just because of what it meant
to Karl? Care for it because of what it could do for him? Loving it first
because he loved it, would not she come to love it for itself?
A quiver of pain had drawn the beautiful light from his face. "Tell me
about your work, dear," he said abruptly. "You haven't said much about it
of late."
She turned away her face. She was always forgetting that he could not see
her face.
"You know you must get to work, sweetheart," he went on as she did not
answer. "I am expecting great things of my little girl."
"I hope you will not be disappointed," she answered, very low.
"Of course I'll not be--if you just get to work. Now when are you going
to begin?"
"I'm going to begin Monday," replied Ernestine.
"Good! Painting some great picture?"
She hesitated. "I hope it will be a great picture."
"Tell me about it."
"I can tell you better, dear, when it is a little farther along."
"You love your work, Ernestine.
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