"I think I like this one best," she said, abruptly, nodding to the
picture before them.
Ernestine nodded in reply. She was not sure what would happen were she to
speak. The girl she supposed to be one of the students there.
"I would give anything in the world--just anything in the world--if I
could do it too!"
At the passion of that she turned quickly and looked at the girl. In
spite of the real feeling of her tone a fretful look was predominant in
her face.
"Do you--work hard?" she asked, merely to relieve the pause.
"Work--yes; but mere work won't do it. I can't do anything like
this,"--it was in bitterness she said it.
"Very few can, you know," murmured Ernestine.
"Yes--but I want to! I don't care anything about life--I don't care
anything about anything--if I can't paint!"
It struck her immediately as so entirely wrong. She looked at the girl,
and then again at the pictures. All the great things they conveyed were
passing her by. She missed the essence of it. The greatness of the work
merely moved her to anger because she was not great herself.
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