Hour after hour the child works, so still, so fervent, so earnest,—going over and over, time after time, her simple, ignorant methods to make it "look like," and stopping, at times, to give the true artist's sigh, as the little green and scarlet fragment lies there hopelessly, unapproachably perfect. Ignorantly to herself, the hands of the little pilgrim are knocking at the very door where Giotto and Cimabue knocked in the innocent child-life of Italian art.
"Why won't it look round?" she said to Moses, who had come in behind her.
"Why, Mara, did you do these?" said Moses, astonished; "why, how well they are done! I should know in a minute what they were meant for."
Mara flushed up at being praised by Moses, but heaved a deep sigh as she looked back.
"It's so pretty, that sprig," she said; "if I only could make it just like"—
"Why, nobody expects that," said Moses, "it's like enough, if people only know what you mean it for. But come, now, get your bonnet, and come with me in the boat. Captain Kittridge has just brought down our new one, and I'm going to take you over to Eagle Island, and we'll take our dinner and stay all day; mother says so."
"Oh, how nice!" said the little girl, running cheerfully for her sun-bonnet.
At the house-door they met Mrs. Pennel, with a little closely covered tin pail.
"Here's your dinner, children; and, Moses, mind and take good care of her."
"Never fear me mother, I've been to the Banks; there wasn't a man there could manage a boat better than I could."