“I think the power resides in every person, and only waits a quickening, like all other powers.”

Dawn thought of the hour in Germany when Ralph sat and sketched her portrait, and the intervening time was as though it had not been.  It was but yesterday, and she sat again by his side watching the deep life of his eyes, eyes on which she would never look again.  Were they closed forever?  “O, heart so desolate.  O, lone and barren shore, where are the waves of joy?  All receded; all; and she seemed to stand upon the beach alone, while a chill ran over her.

“You are chilly, Miss Wyman, let me close the window.”

But Dawn heard not, saw not; for before her vision appeared a face all radiant with life, toned by a look of intensest sympathy; while on the brow glittered a star so radiant that mortal might not gaze upon it.  Its rays seemed to enter her very soul, and pierce it with life and light, bathing it with a flood of joy.  It was no longer dark, her face beamed with a strange light when Miss Bernard turned to call her attention to some pictures which were unfinished.

“You seemed far away, Miss Wyman,” said she.  “It’s so like Basil.  He has such moments of abstraction, and almost takes me with him.”

“I was away for a moment; but what a lovely picture you have here.”

“It’s one I am trying to copy, but I make little progress.”

“Truth is not necessarily literal, is it?  If so, I should make a poor copyist.”

“It is not; and there is where most persons fail.  ’The Divine can never be literal, and there is in all art a vanishing point, where the Divine merges itself into the ideal.’  And that vanishing point is seen in the human composition, as well as in natural objects, that point where we lose ourselves in the Divine, and merge our own being into that greater, grander being.  You are an artist, Miss Wyman, you group human souls and portray them in all their naturalness; not on canvas, for that could not be, but spiritually to our inner sight.

“I love art in whatever form it may come to glorify life, for true art is catholic, beneficent, touching with its mystic wand every soul within its reach, thrilling even the sluggish and the slumbering with a new sense of the Divine bounty which makes this world so lovely and fair.”

Miss Bernard looked grateful for the rich appreciation of her guest, which she had scarce dared hope to find; and from art they drifted to life and some of its present needs, glowing with friendly recognition as they advanced and found each possessed with similar views.  Thus do we meet pilgrims on the way, at some unexpected turn, when we thought ourselves alone upon the road.

“I know by these pictures, Miss Bernard,” said Dawn, “that your life is full of practicality.”

“You surprise me, for every stranger thinks that I do nothing else.”

“If nothing else, you would not do this, or anything of a fanciful nature.”