Bartlett, his manner undergoing a total change as if he had been suddenly recalled to himself at a critical moment.—"Don't!" He hastily picks them up, and puts the canvas on the easel and the colours on the table. With a glance at the canvas: "Ponkwasset doesn't seem to have been seriously injured by his violent usage. Shall you like to try your hand at him again to-morrow?"
Constance.—"Oh, yes. But on one condition."
Bartlett.—"Yes."
Constance.—"That you have a little faith in me, too."
Bartlett.—"Oh, Miss Wyatt"—
Constance.—"I used to have a bad temper, and now that I'm getting better it seems to be getting worse. Try to believe in me enough to know that when I do or say some violent thing, I'm ashamed of it; and that when I wounded you, I really meant to hurt myself; that I— Oh, you know, Mr. Bartlett, how much you've borne from us, and how much we owe you; and if you did anything now to make us think less of your unselfish goodness, we never could forgive you!" Bartlett remains with bowed head. "I must go, now." Gaily: "Perhaps to-morrow, when we resume our lessons, you'll tell me what you meant to-day, when you couldn't explain yourself."
Bartlett, vehemently.—"No, I can never tell you."
Constance.—"I can't believe that! At any rate, we shall talk the matter over, and I may say something to help you. You know how one thing leads to another."
Bartlett.—"But nothing you can ever say now will lead to what I wanted to say."