He lay in his hammock one day, thinking all this over. Rotha was sitting near him drawing. She was always near him when she could be so, though a spaniel is not more unobtrusive. Nor indeed half as much so; for a pet dog will sometimes try to attract attention, which Rotha never did. She was content and happy if she could be near her one friend and glance at him from time to time. And lately Rotha had become extremely fond of her pencil; I might say, of all the studies Mr. Digby put before her. Whatever he wished her to do, she did with a will. But drawing had grown to be a passion with her, and naturally she was making capital progress. She sat absorbed in her work, her eyes intently going from her model to her paper and back again; nevertheless, every now and then one swift glance went in Mr. Digby's direction. No model, living or dead, equalled in her eyes the pleasantness of his face and figure. He caught one of those glances; quick, wistful, watchful, and meeting his eye this time, it softened with an inexplicable sort of content. The young man could have smiled, but that the look somehow gave him a touch of pain. He noticed Rotha more particularly, as she sat at her drawing. He noticed how she had changed for the better, even in the few weeks since they came to Fort Washington; how her face had refined, grown gentle and quiet, and her manners correspondingly. He noticed what a good face it was, full of intelligence and latent power, and present sensitiveness; and furthermore, a rare thing anywhere, how free from self-consciousness. Full of life and of eager susceptibility as Rotha was always, she seemed to have the least recollection of herself and her own appearance. She did not forget her new dresses, for instance, but she looked at them from her own standpoint and not from that of an imaginary spectator. Mr. Digby drew an involuntary sigh, and Rotha looked up again.
"You like that work, Rotha," he said.
"Very much, Mr. Digby!" He had once told her to be moderate in her expressions, and to say always less than she felt, rather than more. Rotha never forgot, and was sedulously reserved in her manner of making known what she felt.
"But Mr. Digby, it is very difficult," she went on.
"What?"
"To make anything perfect."
He smiled. "Very difficult indeed. People that aim so high are never satisfied with what they do."
"Then is it better to aim lower?"
"By no means! He that is satisfied with himself has come to a dead stand- still; and will get no further."
"But must one be always dissatisfied with oneself?"