though she was, she could not, in her great tenderness for her affianced lover Florian Varillo, foresee that daily contact with his weaker and smaller nature, would kill those dreams as surely as a frost-wind kills the buds of the rose,—­and that gradually, very gradually, the coarser fibre of his intelligence mingling with hers, would make a paltry and rough weaving of the web of life, instead of a free and gracious pattern.  She never thought of such possibilities—­she would have rejected the very idea of them with scorn and indignation.  She would have declared that her love for Florian was the very root and source of her art,—­that for him she worked—­for him she lived.  So indeed she believed, in her finely-fervent self-delusion,—­but it was not ordained that this glamour should last,—­for hers was a nature too rare and valuable to be sacrificed, and the Higher destinies had begun to approve her as precious.  Therefore, as is the case with all precious things, the furnace was preparing for the shaping of the gold,—­the appointed Angel of her Fate was already hovering near, holding ready the cup of bitterness which all must drain to the dregs, before knowing what it is to drink of “the new wine in the Kingdom of God.”

“I wonder,” thought the girl now, as she stepped lightly from one corner of her studio to the other, rearranging a vase here—­a bust there—­and imparting to the whole room that indefinable air of grace and luxury which can only be bestowed by the trained hand of a practised artist,—­“I wonder if Florian will be proud?  People will certainly talk of my picture,—­some will praise and some will condemn; and this mixture of praise and condemnation is what is called Fame.  But will my beloved love me more?  Will he be glad that I am found worthy in the world’s sight?—­or will he think I am usurping his place?  Ah!” and she paused in her work, looking vaguely before her with thoughtful, wondering eyes, “That is where we women workers have to suffer!  Men grudge us the laurel, but they forget that we are trying to win it only that we may wear the rose more fittingly!  A woman tries to do a great and a noble thing, not that she may vex of humiliate a man by superiority,—­but that she may be more worthy to be his mate and helper in the world,—­and also, that her children may reverence her for something more than the mere animal duties of nursing and tenderness.  How proud to-day would be any man or woman who could point to Rosa Bonheur and say, ’She was my mother!’ And yet perhaps this idea of mine is too fantastic,—­the Brownings left a son—­and he has nothing of their genius or their enthusiasm.”

She moved to the grand piano and set it open; as she did so a thought of Sylvie came across her mind, and she smiled.