Eagerly and feverishly, she worked at a picture that she hoped would bring her in money. She had taken a Bible scene, and was depicting Hannah giving her tiny boy into Eli's keeping. The three figures showed power. The mother's heart seemed divided between the anguish of parting, and pride of giving up her son for such a service. Eli was drawing the boy gently away from his mother's lingering clasp, and the child had the big tears in his eyes and the frightened look upon his face that told how much the parting meant to him. The models she hired for this picture were an expense, but they were the means to the end, and she worked on, hardly giving herself time to sleep or eat. Her face grew thin, but her spirits were good.
"It is hard times," she said to herself; "but I shall weather through."
She had many nice thoughts over her painting. The subject itself interested her. She thought over various titles for it. "A Mother's Gift" and "Lent to the Lord" were her favourites. When she came back from her teaching at the art school, her eyes would brighten as she settled to her picture, and it was only when daylight faded that she permitted herself to rest.
One day she met with a slight accident. In opening a tin of sardines for her frugal supper, she cut her right hand very severely with the tin. She did not think much of it at the time, but bandaged it, and though for a few days it was very inconvenient, she hoped it would heal speedily. This it did not do, and after a great deal of pain and inflammation, she took herself off to a doctor. He thought rather seriously of it, and told her she must give her hand complete rest or he would not answer for the consequences.
Jean stared at him blankly.
"I cannot rest it," she said. "I live by it. I am an artist."
"I am very sorry, but I say emphatically that you must give up your painting till your hand is well. I do not want to alarm you, but it has every appearance of blood-poisoning. You must take plenty of nourishment and have complete rest."
Jean walked home feeling almost crushed. Then she threw up her head and looked away to the grey fleecy clouds that were passing overhead.
"It must be all right for me," she said. "I am in God's keeping. He knows best. 'I will trust, and not be afraid.' She went into her forlorn little room. Lately, she had been feeling so tired and unfit, that she had rather neglected its appearance. She sank into a chair and looked round her.
"Oh, what would I give to see some one walk in with a cup of tea ready made!"