"I follow my bees," said the old woman.
"But I cannot wait for your bees," she cried, vexed and alarmed. "I must get back—I was mad to have come here. I have work to do. Everything has gone wrong with me since—since—oh, I must go back and get at my work!"
"And what is your work?" the old woman asked.
"I am an artist," she said.
"What is that?"
"I paint pictures," she said.
"Why do you do that?" asked the old woman.
"Why? Why?" she repeated. "Why does anyone do his work? Because I am told by good workmen that I do it well, and that I shall every year do it better. Because I would give up food and sleep for it. Because I shall, if I live, some day do some one thing that will be remembered after I am past all work."
"You will never do that with a picture," said the old woman quietly.
She stamped her foot upon the earthen floor.