"Once I took everything you said as if you were inspired, for I believed you were. For years I have been accustomed to think of your approval, and wait for it, and long for it; for I always knew you would finally stand here in the midst of my work as the one thing that should prove to me it was good. If you could only know what sort of value I have set on the praise of critics while waiting for yours, you would deem me ungrateful. But I knew you would come. You are here, then,—and I perceive, though you do not say so, that I have not wasted time; often, while I was painting that hero yonder, I said to myself, 'Better die than hold on to life or self a moment after the voice calls!' Julia, it has called!"
This was spoken quietly enough, but with the deep feeling that seeks neither outlet nor consolation in sound. Having spoken, he went up to his easel, cut away the canvas with long, even knife-strokes, set aside the frame. He was ready. And now he waited further orders,—looking at the woman who had accomplished so much.
She did not, by gesture or word, interrupt him; but when he stood absolutely motionless and silent, as if more were to be said, and by her, she evidently faltered.
"Give me the canvas," she said.
"Your trophy."
He gave it her with a smile.
"No; but if a trophy, worth more than could be told. There's nobler work for you to do than painting pictures. Atonement,—reconciliation,—sacrifice."
"Where? when? how?"
He put these questions with a distinctness that required answer.
"Your heart will tell you."