A Daughter of To-Day | Page 7

upon charcoal and canvas. There was an enthusiasm for work in
the Institute, a canonization of names, a blazing desire to imitate that
tried hard to fan itself into originality. Elfrida kindled at once, and felt
that her soul had lodged forever In her fingers, that art had found for
her, once for all, a sacred embodiment. She spoke with subdued feeling
of its other shapes; she was at all points sympathetic; but she was no
longer at all points desirous. Her aim was taken. She would not write
novels or compose operas; she would paint. There was some
renunciation in it and some humility. The day she came home, looking

over a dainty sandalwood box full of early verses, twice locked against
her mother's eye, "The desire of the moth for the star," she said to
herself; but she did not tear them up. That would have been brutal.
Elfrida wanted to put off opening the case that held her year's work
until next day. She quailed somewhat in anticipation of her parents'
criticisms as a matter of fact; she would have preferred to postpone
parrying them. She acknowledged this to herself with a little irritation
that it should be so, but when her father insisted, chisel in hand, she
went down on her knees with charming willingness to help him. Mrs.
Bell took a seat on the sofa and clasped her hands with the expression
of one who prepares for prayer.
One by one Mr. Leslie Bell drew out his daughter's studies and copies,
cutting their strings, clearing them of their paper wrappings, and
standing each separately against the wall in his crisp, business-like way.
They were all mounted and framed; they stood very well against the
wall; but Mr. Bell, who began hopefully, was presently obliged to try to
hide his disappointment, the row was so persistently black and white.
Mrs. Bell, on the sofa, had the look of postponing her devotions.
"You seem to have done a great many of these--etchings," said Mr.
Bell.
"Oh, papa! They're not etchings, they're subjects in charcoal--from
casts and things."
"They do you credit--I've no doubt they do you credit. They're very
nicely drawn," returned her father, "but they're a good deal alike. We
wont be able to hang more than two of them in the same room. Was
that what they gave you the medal for?"
Mr. Bell indicated a drawing of Psyche. The lines were delicate,
expressive, and false; the relief was imperfect, yet the feeling was
undeniably caught. As a drawing it was incorrect enough, but its charm
lay in a subtle spiritual something that bad worked into it from the girl's
own fingers, and made the beautiful empty classic face modernly
interesting. In view of its inaccuracy the committee had been guilty of a

most irregular proceeding in recognizing it with a medal; but in a very
young art school this might be condoned.
"It's a perfectly lovely thing," interposed Mrs. Bell from the sofa. "I'm
sure it deserves one."
Elfrida said nothing. The study was ticketed, it had obviously won a
medal.
Mr. Bell looked at it critically. "Yes, it's certainly well done. In spite of
the frame--I wouldn't give ten cents for the frame--the effect is fine. We
most find a good light for that. Oh, now we come to the oil-paintings.
We both presumed you would do well at the oil-paintings; and for my
part," continued Mr. Bell definitely, "I like them best. There's more
variety in them." He was holding at arm's-length, as he spoke, an
oblong scrap of filmy blue sky and marshy green fields in a
preposterously wide, flat, dull gold frame, and looking at it in a puzzled
way. Presently he reversed it and looked again.
"No, papa," Elfrida said, "you had it right side up before." She was
biting her lip, and struggling with a desire to pile them all back into the
box and shut the lid and stamp on it.
"That's exquisite!" murmured Mrs. Bell, when Mr. Bell had righted it
again.
"It's one of the worst," said Elfrida briefly. Mr. Bell looked relieved.
"Since that's your own opinion, Elfrida," he said, "I don't mind saying
that I don't care much about it either. It looks as if you'd got tired of it
before you finished it."
"Does it?" Elfrida said.
"Now this is a much better thing, in my opinion," her father went on,
standing the picture of an old woman behind an apple-stall along the
wall with the rest "I don't pretend to be a judge, but I know what I like,
and I like that. It explains itself."

"It's a lovely bit of color," remarked Mrs. Bell.
Elfrida smiled. "Thank you, mamma," she said, and kissed her.
When the box was exhausted, Mr. Bell walked up