est prose writers,
who, by the lofty truth that lies hid beneath legend and parable, purify
the world, graceful painters and beautiful musicians, each brightening
their generation--among these, let woman shine!

But her sphere is, and ever must be, bounded; because, however fine her
genius may be, it always dwells in a woman's breast. Nature, which gave
to man the dominion of the intellect, gave to her that of the heart and
affections. These bind her with everlasting links from which she cannot
free herself,--nay, she would not if she could. Herein man has the
advantage. He, strong in his might of intellect, can make it his all in
all, his life's sole aim and reward. A Brutus, for that ambition which
is misnamed patriotism, can trample on all human ties. A Michael Angelo
can stand alone with his work, and so go sternly down unto a desolate
old age. But there scarcely ever lived the woman who would not rather
sit meekly by her own hearth, with her husband at her side, and her
children at her knee, than be the crowned Corinne of the Capitol.

Thus woman, seeking to strive with man, is made feebler by the very
spirit of love which in her own sphere is her chiefest strength. But
sometimes chance or circumstance or wrong, sealing up her woman's
nature, converts her into a self-dependent human soul. Instead of life's
sweetnesses, she has before her life's greatnesses. The struggle passed,
her genius may lift itself upward, expand, and grow; though never to
the stature of man's. Then, even while she walks with scarce-healed
feet over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest upon her
upturned brow, and she may become a light unto her generation.

Such a destiny lay open before Olive Rothesay.

She welcomed it as one who has girded himself with steadfast but
mournful patience unto a long and weary journey, welcomes the faint ray
that promises to guide him through the desolation. No more she uttered,
as was her custom in melancholy moods, the bitter complaint, "Why was
I born?" but she said to herself, "I will live so as to leave the world
better when I die. Then I shall not have lived in vain."

It was long before Michael Vanbrugh could thoroughly reconcile himself
to the idea of a girl's becoming a painter. But by degrees he learned to
view his young pupil _as_ a pupil, and never thought of her sex at
all. Under his guidance, Olive passed from the mere prettiness of most
woman-painters to the grandeur of true Art.