“You think, then, the time spent in these has been quite wasted?” I tried to say calmly.

“A genuine artist, no doubt, would say without a moment’s hesitation that the paint was thrown away.  As for the time, he would probably say a young girl’s time was of little consequence in any case.  I am not an artist, and do not value paint at a high figure; so I most decidedly affirm that you made an excellent use of the paint.  Labor conscientiously spent in decorating a barn door is well employed.  The door may not be much the better, but the person who tries to improve its appearance with painstaking care is benefited.”

“Then I may conscientiously continue decorating canvas, or at least trying to do so.”

“I should certainly desire and advise you to do so; but instead of covering so many, if you would take time and talent in elaborating one picture, I would be better pleased.”

He laid the pictures to one side.  “We will continue this study more exhaustingly in the future; to-day I want to speak of other things.  You have made use of my library, Mrs. Flaxman also informs me.  Will you please tell me what books you have been reading?”

I went to the shelves and took down the books I had spent most time over, a good many were novels; and on these I felt certain I could pass a fairly good examination, since I had read some of them with absorbed interest; novels of all kinds were, for the most part, forbidden mental food at school, and therefore, when opportunity offered, I dipped into them with the keener avidity.  But my mind was healthy enough to crave more solid food than fiction alone, and I was glad to be able to hand my guardian a volume or two of Carlyle’s Frederick, Froude’s Caesar, Motley’s Rise of the Dutch Republic, and a couple of volumes of Bancroft’s History of the United States.

“Have you read all these since you came to Oaklands?” he asked, with evident surprise.

“I skipped some of the dull passages; the ‘dry-as-dust’ parts of which I found a few even in Carlyle.”

“Could you stand an examination, think you, in each or any of them?”

“I am willing to try,” I said, seating myself on the opposite side of the table with folded hands, and possibly a martyrlike air of resignation.

“Since you are so willing we will take Froude’s Caesar to-day; let me hear you give a digest of the entire book.”

My eyes sparkled; for this was the last volume I had read, and the author had infused into my mind a strong leaven of his own hero-worship for the majestic Caesar.  I was surprised at the ease with which I repeated chapter after chapter of those stirring incidents, while with his stern, inscrutable face, my guardian turned the leaves to follow me in my rapid flight from tragedy to tragedy in those stormy times.

He laid the book down without comment, and, glancing at the remainder of the pile paused a moment, and then said:  “I will defer the criticisms on these to some other day.  Your memory as well as vocal organs will be fatigued.”