"But," said Jean, smiling, "she does not need to turn it on or off, it is perpetually leaking out."
"Exactly. Can't you catch it as it does so?"
"I am not a genius."
Jean's tone was dispirited.
"If you don't succeed at first—you know the old saying. Let me see that face on your canvas alive. At present it is calm and dead. It—it reminds me of her mother!"
He turned sharply away, and left Jean to ponder over his words.
If she had not genius, she had perseverance, and she worked at her picture as she had never worked before. She put her whole heart and soul into it, and then one day the flash of inspiration came, the touches were added that before had been wanting, and Sunnie's little face shone out in all its pathos and winsomeness.
Her mother, looking at it, said quietly—
"Don't touch her face again, Miss Desmond. It wants nothing more."
And the doctor said—