“It’s you, I suppose, that’s beginning to make picters. Ross told me about it, and I promised to have some done for my boudoir. Those I have cost ever-so-much, but he don’t seem to like ’em. ‘Something small and delicate,’ he says; such as you can do beautifully if I’ll only give you time—which I’m bound to do.”
The warm, pure blood flashed over that gentle face, and Ruth half rose from her pillow in overwhelming surprise.
“You do not mean it! Did the gentleman in truth think anything of the little things I sent to him. He asked me, or I would not have dared.”
“‘Think anything!’ Of course he did; ‘gems,’ he said, ‘they would be, with a little touching-up,’ which he meant to show you about. Though how a bit of canvas can be turned into ‘gems,’—which are rubys, and diamonds, and such like, I take it, beats me. But that was what he said; and where picters is concerned, Ross aint to be disputed, let me tell you. It was all I could do to keep him from turning half of my picters out of doors; though mercy knows the frames alone cost Carter enough to break a common man; for we bought such as took up the most gold, meaning to have enough for our money.”
Ruth lay on her couch while the woman was speaking, lost in a soft glow of gratitude. The one dream of her life gave promise of realization. How diligently she had worked out the little knowledge of drawing and color, which had been a part of her education, when she was able to study, and before the great affliction fell upon her. How much thought she had given, how earnestly she had toiled when this one pursuit became the passion and forlorn hope of her life. Oh, it was heavenly! God had given some power even to her! Those delicate fingers which she clasped over her bosom in a sudden rush of gratitude, had the subtle craft of creating beautiful objects, which, in their turn, melted into gold. Could this be? Was the woman yonder with all that flutter of lace and fringe about her, a reality?
The girl lifted herself slowly from her cushions, and looked around the room. Mrs. Laurence had left it. Something in the kitchen required her presence, and she was getting restive under the infliction of that kind-hearted woman’s conversation; so she had glided out like a shadow, scarcely caring whether she was missed or not.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE FIRST BANK NOTES.
“She has gone—mother, I mean,” said Ruth, troubled with a fear that their visitor might be offended.
Mrs. Carter turned her head with a little disdainful toss.
“Yes, I see. Not very good manners; but to be expected.”