glistening across the waves; and shadows and light almost seemed to move
over the canvas.

"There," said Miss Stuart, "is what I call work that is worthy. I know
there was inspiration in every touch of the brush. I know there was
happy life in the life that inspired that painting. It is worth while to
live and to show that one has been living in that way."

"But I think," said I, "that the artist even of that picture laid aside
his brush heavily, when he sighed to himself that he must call it
finished. I believe that in all the days that it lay upon his easel he
went to it many times with weariness, because there was monotony in the
work,--because the work that he had laid out for himself in his fancy
was far above what he could execute with his fingers. The days of
drudgery hung heavily on the days of inspiration; and it was only when
he carried his heart into the most monotonous part of his work that he
found any inspiration in it, that he could feel he had accomplished
anything." We turned suddenly away into a room where we had not been
before. I could not notice the pictures that covered the walls for the
sake of one to which Miss Stuart led the way. After looking upon that,
there could be no thought of finding out any other. It possessed the
whole room. The inspiration which uplifted the eyes fell over the whole
painting. We looked at it silently, and it was not till we had left the
building that Miss Stuart said,--

"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