a's part, to make serious use of her musical talent
had been frustrated. But a pathetic, unquenchable hope always survived
that presently, when this or that corner had been turned, this or that
difficulty overcome, conditions would be conquered and opportunity
arrive. Not yet had she resigned her belief that the most harassing and
wearying and unceasing business that a human being can undertake, is
compatible with the stupendous labour and the unbounded claims of an
artist's career. The details of practical life and petty duties sprouted
up at every step. If they were put aside, even for a moment, the wheels
of daily existence became clogged and then all opportunity was over.
Hope had begun to alternate with a fear lest that evasive corner should
never be turned, that little crop of interruptions never cease to turn
up. And yet it was so foolish. Each obstacle in itself was paltry. It
was their number that overcame one, as the tiny arrows of the Lilliputs
overcame Gulliver.

One of Hadria's best friends in Craddock Dene was Joseph Fleming, who
had become very intimate at the Red House during the last year or two.
Hadria used to tire of the necessity to be apparently rational (such was
her own version), and found it a relief to talk nonsense, just as she
pleased, to Joseph Fleming, who never objected or took offence, if he
occasionally looked surprised. Other men might have thought she was
laughing at them, but Joseph made no such mistake when Mrs. Temperley
broke out, as she did now and then, in fantastic fashion.

She was standing, one morning, on the little bridge over the stream that
ran at a distance of a few hundred yards from the Red House. The two
boys were bespattering themselves in the meadow below, by the water's
verge. They called up at intervals to their mother the announcement of
some new discovery of flower or insect.

Watching the stream sweeping through the bridge, she seemed the centre
of a charming domestic scene to Joseph Fleming, who chanced to pass by
with his dogs. He addressed himself to her maternal feelings by
remarking what handsome and clever boys they were.

"Handsome and clever?" she repeated. "Is _that_ all you can say, Mr.
Fleming? When you set about it, I think you might provide a little
better food for one's parental sentiment. I suppose you will go and tell
Mrs. Walker that _her_ dozen and a half are all handsome and clever
too!"

"Not so handsome and clever as yours," replied Mr.