“We have seen there something which takes away all thought of artist or style of painting or work.  I have never been able to ask myself what is the color of the eyes of that Madonna, or of her flowing hair, or the tone of the drapery.  I see only an expression that inspires the whole figure, gives motion to the hands, life to the eyes, thought to the lips, and soul to the whole being.”

“The whole inspiration, the whole work,” I said, “is far above us.  It is quite above me.  No, I am not an artist; my fingers do not tingle for the brush.  This is an inspiration I cannot reach; it floats above me.  It moves and touches me, but shows me my own powerlessness.”

I left Boston.  I went back to winter, to my old home, to my every-day’s work.  My work was not monotonous; or if one tone did often recur in it, I built upon it, out of my heart and life, full chords of music.  The vision of Margaret Stuart came before my eyes in the midst of all mechanical labor, in all the hours of leisure, in all the dreams of night.  My life, indeed, grew more varied than ever; for I found myself more at ease with those around me, finding more happiness than I had ever found before in my intercourse with others.  I found more of myself in them, more sympathy in their joy or sorrow, myself more of an equal with those around me.

The winter months passed quickly away.  Mr. Clarkson frequently showed his disappointment because the mills no longer produced the wonder of last year.  For me, it had almost passed out of my thoughts.  It seemed but a part of the baser fabric of that vision where Margaret Stuart reigned supreme.  I saw no way to help him; but more and more, daily, rejoiced in the outer sunshine of the world, in the fresh, glowing spring, in the flowers of May.  So I was surprised again, when, near the close of May, after a week of stormy weather, the sunlight broke through the window where it had shone the year before.  It hung a moment on the threads of work,—­then, seeming to spurn them, fell upon the ground.

We were weaving, alas! a strange “arabesque pattern,” as it was called, with no special form,—­so it seemed to my eyes,—­bringing in gorgeous colors, but set in no shape which Nature ever produced, either above the earth or in metals or crystals hid far beneath.  How I reproached myself, on Mr. Clarkson’s account, that I had not interceded, just for this one day of sunshine, for some pattern that Nature might be willing to acknowledge!  But the hour was past, I knew it certainly, when the next day the sun was clouded, and for many days we did not see its face again.

So the time passed away.  Another summer came along, and another glowing autumn, and that winter I did not go to Boston.  Mr. Clarkson let me fall back again into my commonplace existence.  I was no longer more than one of the common workmen.  Perhaps, indeed, he looked upon, me with a feeling of disappointment, as though a suddenly discovered diamond had turned to charcoal in his hands.  Sometimes he consulted me upon chemical matters, finding I knew what the books held, but evidently feeling a little disturbed that I never brought out any hidden knowledge.