Returning to the plans—they seemed to have a fascination for Mills—one of his questions prompted Bruce to seize a pencil and try another type of entrance. Mills stood by, watching the free swift movement of the strong hand.
“I’m not so sure that’s better than your first idea. I’ve always heard that a first inspiration is likely to be the best—providing always that it is an inspiration! I’d give a lot if I could do what you’ve just done with that pencil. I suppose it’s a knack; you’re born with it. You probably began young; such talent shows itself early.”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like to fool with a pencil. My mother gave me my first lessons. She had a very pretty talent—sketched well and did water colors—very nice ones, too. That’s one of them over there—a corner of our garden in the old home at Laconia.”
Mills walked slowly across the room to look at a framed water color that hung over Bruce’s writing table.
“Yes; I can see that it’s good work. I remember that garden—I seem to remember this same line of hollyhocks against the brick wall.”
“Oh, mother had that every year! Her flowers were famous in Laconia.”
“And that sun-dial—I seem to remember that, too,” Mills observed meditatively.
“Mother liked that sort of thing. We used to sit out there in the summer. She made a little festival of the coming of spring. I think all the birds in creation knew her as friend. And the neighbor children came in to hear her read—fairy stories and poetry. We had jolly good times there—mother and I!”
“I’m sure you did,” said Mills gravely.
As he stepped away from the table his eyes fell upon the photograph of a young woman in a silver frame. He bent down for a closer inspection. Bruce turned away, walked the length of the room and glanced round to find Mills still regarding the photograph.