sacrificed at the shrine of what he regarded as a father's duty; and
he experienced a severe pang, as, on surveying the child's sketches,
he dared not say one word in praise of them, although his very heart
bounded, lover of the fine arts as he was, at the promise of superior
talent they exhibited. After William had left the room he sat leaning
his head on his hand, quite unrepentant, however, for his seeming
harshness, but at the same time troubled that his views of duty made
it imperative for him to appear so. Margaret was the first to break
silence.

"George," said she, "why did you hurt poor William by not praising his
drawings? the child was so sure you would be delighted; and although
he knew where your pencils are kept, he never once asked for them, but
took the charcoal from the hearth. I cannot understand why you did
so."

"My dear Margaret," he replied, "I am far more grieved to be obliged
to look frowningly on that which, in other than our present
circumstances, would have given to me greater delight than to you or
my good child himself. William's sketches, rude as they are, evince
very extraordinary talent, but I should sin were I to encourage him to
pursue such a work. I know too well how absorbing it is; how hard it
is, when one's mind is filled with pictures of the grand and
beautiful, to work at a trade one does not like. The boy, most likely,
has genius; but even so, how is that genius to be fostered? I know,
too, how toilsome and difficult is the early path toward the art, and
how few, comparatively, ever gain distinction and reward."

"That is true," said Margaret; "I now understand and see that you are
right."