visited his studio, and a new world opened to me. Up to that time
portrait painting had seemed as inaccessible as the moon--a sublimity I
no more thought of reaching than a star; but when I saw a portrait on
the easel, a palette of paints and some brushes, I was at home in a new
world, at the head of a long vista of faces which I must paint; but the
new aspiration was another secret to keep.

Bard, the wagon-maker, made me a stretcher, and with a yard of
unbleached muslin, some tacks and white lead, I made a canvas. In the
shop were white lead, lampblack, king's yellow and red lead, with oil
and turpentine. I watched Bard mix paints, and concluded I wanted brown.
Years before, I heard of brown umber, so I got umber and some brushes
and begun my husband's portrait. I hid it when he was there or I heard
any one coming, and once blistered it badly trying to dry it before the
fire, so that it was a very rough work; but it was a portrait, a daub, a
likeness, and the hand was his hand and no other. The figure was
correct, and the position in the chair, and, from the moment I began it,
I felt I had found my vocation.

What did I care for preachers and theological arguments? What matter who
sent me my bread, or whether I had any? What matter for anything, so
long as I had a canvas and some paints, with that long perspective of
faces and figures crowding up and begging to be painted. The face of
every one I knew was there, with every line and varying expression, and
in each I seemed to read the inner life in the outer form. Oh, how they
plead with me! What graceful lines and gorgeous colors floated around
me! I forgot God, and did not know it; forgot philosophy, and did not
care to remember it; but alas! I forgot to get Bard's dinner, and,
although I forgot to be hungry, I had no reason to suppose he did. He
would willingly have gone hungry, rather than give any one trouble; but