'

Rhona Boswell, down whose face also the tears were streaming, nodded
in a patronising way to Wilderspin, and said, 'Reia, my mammy lives
in the clouds, and I'll tell her to show you the Golden Hand, I
will.'

'From the moment when I left my mother in the grave,' said
Wilderspin, 'I had but one hope, that she who was watching my
endeavours might not watch in vain. Art became now my religion:
success in it my soul's goal. I went to London; I soon began to
develop a great power of design, in illustrating penny periodicals.
For years I worked at this, improving in execution with every design,
but still unable to find an opening for a better class of work. What
I yearned for was the opportunity to exercise the gift of colour.
That I did possess this in a rare degree I knew. At last I got a
commission. Oh! the joy of painting that first picture! My progress
was now rapid. But I had few purchasers till Providence sent me a
good man and great gentleman, my dear friend--'

'This is a long-winded speech of yours, _mon cher_,' yawned Cyril.
'Lady Sinfi is going to strike up with the Welsh riddle unless you
get along faster.'

'Don't stop him,' I heard Sinfi mutter, as she shook Cyril angrily;
'he's mighty fond o' that mother o' his'n, an', if he's ever sich a
horn nataral, I likes him.'

'I never exhibited in the Academy,' continued Wilderspin, without
heeding the interruption, 'I never tried to exhibit; but, thanks to
the dear friend I have mentioned, I got to know the Master himself.
People came to my poor studio, and my pictures were bought from my
easel as fast as I could paint them. I could please my buyers, I
could please my dear friend, I could please the Master himself; I
could please every person in the world but one--myself. For years I
had been struggling with what cripples so many artists--with
ignorance--ignorance, Mr. Aylwin, of the million points of detail
which must be understood and mastered before ever the sweetness, the
apparent lawlessness and abandonment of Nature can be expressed by
Art. But it was now, when I had conquered these,--it was now that I
was dissatisfied, and no man living was so miserable as I. I dare say
you are an artist yourself, Mr. Aylwin, and will understand me when I
say that artists--figure-painters, I mean,--are divided into two
classes--those whose natural impulse is to paint men, and those who
are sent into the world expressly to paint women. My mother's death
taught me that