hily
treated by the chisel. And when I exclaimed, that Autumn, with her
glowing palette, was as pure an artist as the old sculptor Winter,
chiselling in unvaried white, she reminded me that Nature was infinite,
handling all themes with equal power and purity; but that man, in
copying, became, as she thought some of the Preraphaelites had done, a
caricaturist, in attempting to follow her too closely. I was unconvinced
by her arguments, but held my newly bought color-box as a means of
proving to her the wisdom of my choice.

When I was about to leave, she said,--

"Sandy, pray don't make an enemy of Tracy Waters on account of any words
you had the other evening about the blacksmith's little girl. He's a
rough, but kind fellow, and your superiority and desire to rise in life
will stir up envy enough of themselves. Why not let him show his
admiration of the child, if he wanted to?"

"Oh, have they been telling you about that, Miss Darry?" I answered,
awkwardly. "If you knew Annie Bray, you would not ask me why I didn't
let him bend his great rough face over hers. She's only a child in
years, to be sure; but she has a woman's modesty."

"Oh, well, if she shrank from it, of course, as a gentleman, you were
bound to take her part; but don't spoil your chances in life, Sandy, I
beg, by any entanglement with these villagers of which you may repent. A
pretty country lassie to smile when you look at her would doubtless be a
comforting companion in your struggles. But once attain what you long
for in other ways, and you will crave an intelligent friend, whose
gaucheries shall not forever put you to the blush."

Miss Darry, in her appreciation of my abilities, sometimes forgot my
lack of attainment. I was not always familiar with her quotations, but
now I was more disturbed by her regarding so seriously my brotherly
devotion to Annie Bray, and by the depreciating estimate which she held
of her.

"I did not know you looked down so entirely upon our villagers. The only
way in which I could expect to differ from them is through my talent for
painting, if I prove to have any. My mother was a good woman, gentle and
quiet in her ways, but only a farmer's daughter; and though my father
was the village doctor, he studied his profession without any regular
training, and I suppose knew less of chemistry and anatomy than you,
Miss Darry. Annie Bray is as much a lady, in her childish way, as Miss
Merton; only she is the stone in its nati