“I shall be most happy,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Let us go at once.”
The opposite room was fitted up as an artist’s studio,—plainly enough, for young Coleman was, as yet, only a struggling aspirant, without a name and without orders.
On an easel was the picture of which he had spoken. The subject was, “A country farm-house at sunrise.” Broad and low, suggestive less of beauty than of substantial comfort, it stood prominently out. The farmer in his shirt-sleeves was leaning carelessly against the fence, watching a group of cattle who were just emerging from the barn, followed by the farmer’s son, a stout boy of fourteen. There was a cart in the yard near the house, a plough, and a variety of accessories carefully selected to imitate nature as scrupulously as possible. The whole painting was exceedingly natural.
“It is beautiful,” said Helen, with childish enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” said the young man, smiling.
“It looks very familiar to me,” said Mr. Ford. “It seems to me as if I had seen the very farm-house you have represented.”
“Thank you. I may dare to hope, then, that I have been reasonably true to nature.”
“In that respect I think you have succeeded wonderfully. You must have been born in the country, Mr. Coleman.”
“Yes, sir; I am a farmer’s son.”
“What made you think of becoming an artist?” asked Helen.