“Not be together? all our lives, all our lives, ay,” cried he, rising into enthusiasm, “hundreds of years to come will we two be together before men's eyes—I will be an immortal painter, that the world and time may cherish the features I have loved. I love her, mother,” added he, with a tearful tenderness that ought to have reached a woman's heart; then flushing, trembling, and inspired, he burst out, “And I wish I was a sculptor and a poet too, that Christie might live in stone and verse, as well as colors, and all who love an art might say, 'This woman cannot die, Charles Gatty loved her.'”
He looked in her face; he could not believe any creature could be insensible to his love, and persist to rob him of it.
The old woman paused, to let his eloquence evaporate.
The pause chilled him; then gently and slowly, but emphatically, she spoke to him thus:
“Who has kept you on her small means ever since you were ten years and seven months old?”
“You should know, mother, dear mother.”
“Answer me, Charles.”
“My mother.”
“Who has pinched herself, in every earthly thing, to make you an immortal painter, and, above all, a gentleman?”
“My mother.”