"The tannery, of course," said Asahel, coming to look at the sketch. "How natural it looks, with the tree over the end and that bit of the bridge coming in! Well, I never thought you would do as much as that, Marion. Your pictures look like real live things. It is worth while to take drawing-lessons if one can succeed in that style. See, Gerty, what a pretty picture Marion has made of the tannery."
"I can't say I see any great beauty in it—no disrespect to Marion," said Gerty, languidly glancing at the picture. "I dare say it is well done for water-colours, but I don't think much of them, anyway; and what is the use of taking so much trouble to make a picture of what one can see every day?"
"It is good study," said Marion; "and besides, the colours are very nice. The old gray building comes out so pretty against that bank of red rock and earth. At home the rocks are all cold and gray, not warm, as they are here."
"I shouldn't think there could be much difference in the temperature—at least in summer," said Asahel, innocently.
Marion laughed, "It isn't the temperature, it is the colour. Our rocks are all gray."
"Marion is doing the artist—don't you understand?" said Gerty. "She has read in a book that red things are warm, or perhaps dear Cousin Helen told her. I must say I don't think it in the best taste to talk so much paint-shop, especially considering that—"
"Well, that what?" asked Marion, looking full at her.
Gerty did not answer directly, but as Marion quitted the room to put away her painting things, she heard Gerty say in a tone which was evidently meant to catch her ear,—
"That her father was a worthless, drunken, dissipated sign-painter. If I were Marion, I'd do anything but paint."
Marion hastened up to her room and locked herself in. She had learned how to conquer now, but it was not always without a struggle. She prayed for grace to forgive and to be patient.