“How we shall miss him,” said Rose, with a sigh; “though it is true that we are able to walk alone,—especially since we have had those lessons in Paris.”
“I shall always treasure the sketch,” said her sister, “our Helper’s last writing, and message. I shall lock it away in my desk.”
Two years elapsed, and ‘R. and J. Hay’ continued to prosper; they visited Dullditch—but not by motor—and during a holiday on the Continent happened by chance to enter a fine exhibition of modern paintings.
As she moved along slowly and conscientiously, catalogue in hand, Rose was accosted by Josephine, who looked so agitated and pale, that she was justly alarmed.
“Are you ill?” she asked. “What is it?”
“The picture is here,” she whispered excitedly. “Come, it is in the next room—the Helper’s picture of the desert. Oh, it is a masterpiece!—I could scarcely get near it for the crowd.”
Then, when at last an opening was obtained, Rose beheld the finished result of the sketch in her sister’s desk—correct in every particular.
There was the vast desert, the passing of a great sandstorm, the setting of a red sun, and a halted caravan. It was the hour of prayer and thanksgiving; a multitude of the faithful had prostrated themselves towards Mecca; in the foreground, two Europeans, dismounted, held their Arab horses, as they stood bare-headed, gazing towards the east.
On referring to the catalogue, the sisters read:
“409.—After the Sirocco. Anon.”