It seemed to Fani a wonderful mine of wealth; all this fresh paper, and such an assortment of pencils to choose from.  He selected two pencils, and then, spreading a sheet of white paper before him, he began his sketch.  Emma watched every stroke with silent intentness.  But, as the picture grew under the boy’s fingers, she could not control her excitement.

“Oh! oh!  Now it looks exactly like the real oak!  How nicely you make the branches and all the dear little twigs!  Oh! it is the very best thing you ever did, Fani!  How pleased the teacher will be!  I’m sure none of the others will do anything half so good!  How can you do it, Fani?  I never could in the world.”

“I only just copy what I see,” said Fani, whose eyes constantly moved back and forth between the tree and his paper, while his cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled with excitement.  “How lovely those twigs are! and then the leaves!  I don’t think any leaf is as handsome as an oak-leaf, and just look up there! see how perfectly round the shape of the tree stands out against the sky, as if it had been marked by a pair of compasses.  Oh, I wish I could sit all day long drawing this tree; there isn’t anything more beautiful in the whole world!”

“I know something!” cried Emma, suddenly; “you must be an artist, Fani.  That’s the way a painter begins, I’m sure; no one else would ever think of saying that he could sit all day long drawing one tree.”

“It’s all very well to say that I must be an artist,” said Fani, sighing; “but next spring, when I leave school, I shall have to go into the factory and just work hard from morning till night; I couldn’t learn to paint then, if I wanted to ever so much, could I?”

“But you do want to ever so much; don’t you, Fani?  Think how glorious it would be!  Wouldn’t you do anything in the world for the sake of being a painter?”

“Of course I would, but what can I do?  How could I possibly manage it?”

“You just wait; I’ll think and think till I can invent some way.  Only imagine how fine it will be when you are a famous painter and have nothing to do but to paint and draw all the time.  Won’t that be just the very best thing you can think of, Fani?”

Emma’s enthusiasm was infectious.  The pencil dropped from the boy’s hand, and he gazed up into the sky as if already looking upon the future canvases which he should cover with pictures when he was a great painter.

“Do you really believe it, Emma?  Do you really think that I can ever do it?  I should like to begin directly; I feel as if I couldn’t wait.  But what can I do?  How shall I begin?”

“I can’t think exactly, but I’m sure I shall get hold of some plan; don’t be in too great a hurry,” said the girl; “I dare say I shall have something to propose when I go to school to-morrow.  But now come; hurry up and finish the oak, and then take the paper and pencils home with you and do something else.  You know your drawings will be shown at examination, and will need nice paper and pencils; you have nothing but brown paper; so take this.”