feeling too, and must, I should think, have some influence even where it is
not noted."

"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?"

"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent anything
else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no representative of,
nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the exquisiteness of nature's
finish. Why should you not at least have drawn a true horizon-line there?
Has the absolute truth of the meeting of sea and sky nothing to do with the
feeling which such a landscape produces? I should have thought you would
have learned that, if anything, from Mr. Ruskin."

Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or
despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or
rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was anything
but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was doing his
best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess I was not
altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my sin,
and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative reason
was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure for jealousy is
love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's behaving so childishly. Her face
flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, saying, with a little
choke in her voice--

"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am
incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me how
presumptuous I have been."

The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not