“Yes,” she nodded, coloring faintly. It was plain that she expected no praise, yet longed for a helping word.
“Is it a copy?” he asked, for there was about it, although but half expressed, that which he thought must have been suggested by something from a master hand.
“No.”
“Then who is it?” There was unaffected interest in his voice.
“One of my people,” she answered.
“Does she live here?”
“She is here sometimes, not always.”
“Well, she must be a beautiful woman—even more beautiful than you depict her.”
“You understand,” said the child. “I cannot put her on paper as I see her. I know but little of drawing, but I am always trying to draw faces—the faces of my own people—and trees, for they are my own people too; but I am never satisfied with my work. They do not get on the paper as they are in my mind.”
“Why not have some instruction?”