“The original dove did, after a while.” Mr. Spriggs spoke as if he were taking the serious, historical view of the incident. “I imagine yours will, one of these days. Have you got anything you could show me?”
“Would you really care to see?”
“I can’t tell till you show me,” he said cautiously; but this time there was something so very like a smile among the stern features that Madge could see just what the line was that produced it.
She flew to her room, and seized Noah’s Dove, and in five minutes that much-travelled bird had spread his wings,—all six of them,—for the delectation of this mysterious critic.
Madge watched him, as he leaned back 120 in his chair and examined the sketches. He seemed inclined to take his time over them, and she felt sure that her Student had never before been so seriously considered.
At last Mr. Spriggs laid the drawings upon the table and fixed his thoughtful gaze upon the artist. His contemplation of her countenance was prolonged a good many seconds, yet Madge did not feel in the least self-conscious; it never once occurred to her that this severe old gentleman was thinking of anything but her Student. She found herself taking a very low view of her work, and quite ready to believe that perhaps, after all, those unappreciative editors knew what they were about.
“Have you ever sent these to the Gay Head?” her visitor inquired casually.
“Oh, no! I should not dare send anything to the Gay Head!”
“Why not?”
“Why! Because it’s the best paper in the country. It would never look at my things.” 121