"Why, think what that man's time is worth!" continued Mr. Willard,
growing more and more impressed.
"I don't know any one else out here who would get much of it," Professor
Hastings ventured.
"Well, she is a remarkable woman," Willard said then, insistently.
And Professor Hastings--understanding many things about human
beings--said he was really coming to feel that way himself.
Ernestine was alone in the laboratory one bright morning in December. Mr.
Beason had just gone away after assuring her anew that she had a very
great deal to learn. Perhaps it was funny, but one was not always in the
mood for humorous things. Sometimes one felt more like putting one's head
down on the table and having a good cry. Her hands were not quite steady,
as she went about the work Beason had patronisingly left for her to do,
and out of the mists which blinded her there came a picture of her own
quiet studio at home, where she had worked with her own things, things
with which she was supreme. She saw herself at her easel, working in that
quick, sure way of hers, no one to tell her some one else could do it a
great deal better, and that it was extremely doubtful whether she could
ever do anything at all.
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