"See what the father has brought thee! Put in the thumb—so; no, no, the left thumb; hold the brush thus; ah, I have seen men paint in my country. Bring me a cup of water, and a bit of paper; there, my little man, now thou art an Italian, not a Swedish boy, and shalt paint Carina."
The boy looked at her, and then at the colors, delighted, confused, trembling, as she made some inartistic dabs upon the paper; then suddenly seized the materials and began to work himself, making a rude imitation of the picture that had so entranced him. Amid their homely, hard-working life, his parents ceased to heed him. He was out of mischief, and they had much to think of and much to do. Days, weeks passed, and Eric painted on; always at the one subject, never weary, never impatient, but discarding one copy, only to begin on another.
At last the Prost drove up in great state, and was in the midst of a solemn harangue, when his eye suddenly fell upon a row of pictures pinned to the wall.
"What is all this?" he cried, imperiously.
"The boy only does it in his play-hours," said Viola, apologetically.
"The boy!" repeated the Prost. "Unhappy mother!"
Viola trembled, and caught at the nearest chair.
"What is the matter?" she gasped.
"The boy is a genius!" he hissed in her ear.
"Is it my fault?" she asked, piteously. "Did I create him? And what is a genius? Is it anything to come between him and salvation?"