it shows you is far, far from
here."

She raised herself and walked to the casement, shading her eyes with her
hand, for a red glow struck the single pane and blinded her.

"Before you look," said the Bee-woman, "tell me if you remember that
picture of yours which you think the best?"

"Do I remember it?" she repeated, "can I ever forget it? A year of my
life has gone into it. The year that I was married."

[Illustration: The glass of that window has strange properties.]

"Do you think it worth that year?" said the Bee-woman.

"It could not have been done with less," she said.

"Now look," said the Bee-woman, "and tell me what you see."

She went to the casement, and it seemed as if the aged trees formed a
long, long aisle out from it, narrow and bright, and at the end was a
sunny glade.

"I see a young man," she said, "laughing and singing to himself in the
sun."

"Has he suffered?" asked the Bee-woman.

"No, he is hardly more than a boy. His hair curls like a boy's. His face
has never known a care."

"What is he doing?" asked the Bee-woman.

"He is eating fruit and painting a picture on a white cottage wall. The
children and the old men are watching him."

"Do you watch him, too," said the Bee-woman, folding her hands in her
lap.

Soon she gave a little cry.

"What! what!" she murmured, "how can he do that--he is but a boy!"

"Is he weeping?" asked the Bee-woman. "Has he shut out the world?"

"He is smiling," she answered, "and as he works he talks. Oh! he is
painting my picture, mine! Who is he? Mother, who is he?"

"Does he paint well?" asked the Bee-woman.

She did not answer.

"It is nearly done," she whispered, "and he smiles as he works. What
blue, what glistening white! Mother, who is that boy?"

"Is it as well done as your picture?" asked the Bee-woman.

"It is better done," she whispered through her tears, "and he has gone
and left it. He has given it to a village girl for a kiss! Oh, how could
he leave it?"

"Because he can do many more, my child," said the Bee-woman, "and life
has not yet touched him."

"Tell me his name," she said, and turned from the window, pale and sad.

"His name neither the world or this wood has yet troubled to learn,"
said the Bee-woman, "but he will be called a great painter before long."

"How long?" she asked.

"I forget if you call them days or years," said the Bee-woman, "but they
will not be many."

"Who taught him?" she asked.

"Everyon