Mrs. Gano returned home with little loss of time. Her daughter-in-law's higgledy-piggledy house-keeping, the "slackness" that was not all ill-health, coupled with the ubiquitous and unquiet presence of Val, made the elder lady long for her peaceful home in the West. Her going left behind a memory of awe and a vivid sense of relief.
Valeria the elder, with improved health, or else strung up to a semblance of it by the potent ghost of a dear ambition, began her studies in art. She took out a course of lessons in modelling at the Cooper Institute.
The story of those months may not be written here. We will not dog her through her days of disillusionment, her shrinking from the curiosity of the students, her amazement at their facility, her heart-sinking at their youth. As the weeks went on the teacher, an Italian of fine and gentle countenance, looked at her far more often than he looked at her work; and yet it was observed by the merciless young crew in the studio that her blundering attempts were inspected with an interest and frequency not bestowed on their more creditable efforts.
Signor Conti leaned over her one day, speaking kindly phrases in broken English about the new attempt she was making.
"Don't! don't, please!" she said, on a sudden impulse. "Understand that at least I know it's bad."
"Oh, it will be better," he answered, gently.
"No," she said, very low, "it will never be much better. I've waited too long."
"You must not feel discouraged." He leaned lower and spoke under his breath. "You may yet find great happiness by means of your art."
She shook her head, and when she could steady her voice said: