She stopped before many of the pictures--reverting to
that joy of the spirit in dominance. There was exultation, almost
rapture, in this quick, firm rush of understanding; deep joy in just
knowing the good from the bad.
But when she reached the pictures she had come to see it was different.
She walked to the middle of the room, and in one slow sweep of glance,
punctuated with long pauses, took them in. And she responded to them with
a warm, glad rush of tears.
They fell upon her artist's soul as the very lovely rain upon the thirsty
meadow. They drew her to them as the mother the homesick child, and like
the homesick child, back at last after weary days, she knew only that she
had come home. In this first overflowing moment there was no thought of
colour--brush work--this or that triumphant audacity; it was a coming to
her own, a home-coming of the spirit--the heart's passionate
thankfulness, the heart's response.
A few minutes of reverent pause, a high delight, deep response, and
then--the inevitable.
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