“Like it!” she cried. “To travel, to study, to see beautiful things, to hear beautiful music, and to be in touch every day with charming, cultivated people! Oh, if I had half a chance, wouldn’t I take it!”
There was something very wistful in her voice as she said it, but not more wistful than the look that came into Morton Elwell’s eyes at that moment. He turned them away from her face, and the rattle of the big wagon filled the silence.
“You ought to show Mort that picture of Stella you got the other day,” said Kate, suddenly.
Esther took a letter from her pocket. “I brought it out to the farm to-day on purpose to show your aunt,” she said, and she handed him a photograph which he regarded for a moment with a bewildered expression.
“Why, it looks like a picture of Greek statuary,” he said; “one of the old goddesses, or something of that sort.”
“That’s just the way she meant to have it look,” said Esther, triumphantly. “You see how artistic she is.”
The young man still looked mystified. “But is her hair really white, like that?” he asked.
“Why, of course not,” said Esther, in a rather disgusted tone. “She powdered it and did it in a low coil for the sake of the picture. Then she put the white folds over her shoulders to make it look like a bust against the dark background, and she had the lights and shadows arranged to give just the right effect. Isn’t it exquisite?”
“I can’t say I admire it,” said the young man, grimly; “I’d rather see people look as if they were made of flesh and blood.”
Kate laughed. She had privately expressed the same opinion herself, but she did not choose to encourage him in criticising her relatives.