"Not famous, dear," she said, "a very long way from the top of the tree; but I've been lucky in getting one of my pictures into the Academy and gaining the silver medal, and what is better than all, my picture is sold."
This seemed to surprise the unsophisticated old lady more than all the rest.
"Dear, dear me!" she mused. "Who ever would have thought that little wild Madge would become an artist and paint pictures——"
"And sell them, too," laughed the girl.
"How proud your poor father would have been if he had lived," added Mrs. Hale, with a sigh.
A swift shadow crossed the girl's lovely face, and there was silence for a moment.
"And you are quite happy, Madge? The life suits you?"
"Yes, quite, dear; oh, quite. Of course it is hard work. I paint all day while there is light enough, and I read books on art—I was going to say all night," and she smiled. "Then there are the schools and lectures—oh! it is a very pleasant life when one is so fond of art as I am."
"And you don't feel lonely with no kith nor kin near you?"
"No," she said. "Three of us girls lodge together a little way from the schools, and so it is not lonely, and the lady who looks after the house—and us, of course—is pleasant and lady-like. Oh, no, it is not lonely, but—" her eyes softened—"but I am glad to come down and see you, grandma—I can't tell you how glad!" and she stretched out her long, white, shapely hand—the artist's hand—so that the old lady could take it and fondle it.