By this time she had looked at the canvas.
"Why!" she exclaimed, "that is beautiful! You are an artist!"
"A poor one," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself at the girl's enthusiasm.
"Oh, no; you are a real artist!" she said. "I know the real from the sham; because we have so many of the latter staying in Florence. Poor Florence! They make daubs of her all the year round, and send them about the world as true pictures, while they are only libels. But yours will be a beautiful picture! How splendidly you have got those trees there, and that bit of cloud. Oh!" and she sighed, "I would give ten years of my life if I could ever paint like that!"
"That would be rather a heavy price if your life should be as happy all through as it is now," said Margaret, in her sweet, gentle fashion.
The girl looked at her and pondered for a moment, then she flung herself on the grass beside Margaret, and said:
"Do you know, you reminded me of mamma just then. That is just how she speaks when she wants to scold me for one of my extravagancies. Of course I wouldn't give ten years—or one year—of my life for anything; who would?"
Margaret sighed. How gladly would she have given all the remainder of her life to be able to wipe out the past! never to have seen Blair, or to have known those few short weeks of happiness.
"It all depends," said Margaret, gravely. "Some people's lives are not so happy that they could not spare a few years from them."
The girl glanced at Margaret's pale face and then at her black dress, and remained silent for a moment or two; then she looked up and said, timidly: