The large canvas was almost finished, and the painting was spirited and striking. The best judges could have found little fault in the execution. One more touch and it would be perfect.
The unfinished part was the face of Cupid.
Alva had despaired of putting on canvas the face of Cupid as it appeared to her fancy.
Beautiful faces she could find in plenty, but the arch, radiant smile, the laughing eyes so brightly blue, these eluded her brush.
“If I could only find a living face like my ideal and put it on canvas!” she cried, eagerly, over and over to her mother, who at last became almost as anxious over the subject as Alva herself.
It was no wonder that the lady had told Floy she had looked at her as at a beautiful picture, for in the young girl’s enchanting face she had seen the realization of Alva’s dream.
And the artist, standing before her unfinished work, recalled her mother’s words of the day before, and cried out, joyously:
“I must find that lovely girl! She must be my model!”
Hastening to her mother, she exclaimed:
“You must come with me this morning to find Cupid!”