She had won, not through the greatness of
her achievement, but through having made it right with her own soul. The
picture itself was a thing of canvas and paint; it was the spirit out of
which it grew--his spirit and hers--was the thing everlasting. She was
sure that Karl too knew now that it was having the spirit right which
counted. The "perhaps" of his letter was surely answered for him now.
And out of this closeness to the past there opened to her a little of her
own future--things she would do. For she must work,--theirs a love which
made for work. There was much more to paint, much to show how she and
Karl loved the world, what they held it worth,--and all of it to speak
for their love, glorify, immortalise it.
She dreamed deeply and tenderly--the past so real to her, Karl, their
love, so great.
Now she must go. To-morrow many others would come. Artists would come to
pronounce her work good, wonder how she had done this or that. Doctors
and the university men would come, proud to speak of Karl, claim him as
their own.
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