lips, and soul to the whole being."

"The whole inspiration, the whole work," I said, "is far above us. It is
quite above me. No, I am not an artist; my fingers do not tingle for the
brush. This is an inspiration I cannot reach; it floats above me. It
moves and touches me, but shows me my own powerlessness."

I left Boston. I went back to winter, to my old home, to my every-day's
work. My work was not monotonous; or if one tone did often recur in it,
I built upon it, out of my heart and life, full chords of music. The
vision of Margaret Stuart came before my eyes in the midst of all
mechanical labor, in all the hours of leisure, in all the dreams of
night. My life, indeed, grew more varied than ever; for I found myself
more at ease with those around me, finding more happiness than I had
ever found before in my intercourse with others. I found more of myself
in them, more sympathy in their joy or sorrow, myself more of an equal
with those around me.

The winter months passed quickly away. Mr. Clarkson frequently showed
his disappointment because the mills no longer produced the wonder of
last year. For me, it had almost passed out of my thoughts. It seemed
but a part of the baser fabric of that vision where Margaret Stuart
reigned supreme. I saw no way to help him; but more and more, daily,
rejoiced in the outer sunshine of the world, in the fresh, glowing
spring, in the flowers of May. So I was surprised again, when, near the
close of May, after a week of stormy weather, the sunlight broke through
the window where it had shone the year before. It hung a moment on the
threads of work,--then, seeming to spurn them, fell upon the ground.

We were weaving, alas! a strange "arabesque pattern," as it was called,