144 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
almost discouraged her, but not quite. Although doing very well, Walter as yet could not see his way to keeping a servant. Ethel never regretted her choice, never complained, her love for her husband increased as she knew him better, his every thought was for her and her little ones. But the cares of home, and of maternity weighed upon her, the little pinchings, and economies, to which she had been all unused, were always distasteful to her, though prac- tised rigidly. Arthur did not deem it beneath his manhood to relieve her of many of the arduous tasks of household work, and Ethel loved him better for his thoughtfulness.
Now comes the most wonderful part of this over true tale, for true in main it is. One day Ethel paid a visit to her father's studio, and found him busy upon a nearly completed portrait of a well-known lady of rank. She knew another had brought to him an almost fabulous sum of money, and this most likelv would too.
She stood and looked, I must confess, rather enviously, at the ease, and grace, and finish, with which he laid on the colors. All at once —
" Why cannot I paint?" came into her mind.
Her father being called away, she went to the place where he kept his spare palletes and brushes, and picking out a set of paints she made a parcel of them, and carried them away ; sending a boy later for a stretched canvass, which she had hidden in a side room.
For many days she sat with locked door, in front of her mirror, dressed in white satin and pearls, her babies playing at her feet, while her husband was busied upstairs with his pen.
At the end of a month, she one evening, just after dusk, called from the foot of the stairs,
"Walter, dear !"
"What is it? Ethel."
" Come down in the parlor a minute, a lady wants to see you," then she hid.
Down came her husband, and entering the parlor, started back in amazement.
" Why Ethel ! You are dressed up, are you going out this evening ? Why did'nt you say so, I would have gone with you?"
Receiving no answer, and perceiving no motion, he thought she was playing a joke upon him and went nearer intending to put his arm around, and take revenge in kissing her. A fit of trembling seized him, and the sweat oozed out upon his forehead. He fairly staggered. Here was the realization of his dream of Ethel.
" What do you think of it dear?"
" What can I think of it, but that it is yourself, therefore perfect ! A present from your father?"
"No."
" His work, is it not?"
"No."
"Whose is it, then?"
"Mine!"
" Ethel, you are mad !"
" No, dear, only a little elated. I have always felt the working of ambition within me, but did not fully realize its meaning before. I have watched my father at his work, until every touch of the brush, every turn of his hand, are as familiar to me as the respirations of my own breath. I have always mixed his colors since I was a child, and the love of the art was born in me, for my mother was a painter too ; all I needed was practice. I have worked every spare moment for a month, and there is the fruit of my efforts."
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