hey may atone for my other
wrong-doing."

Elise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were
handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity
or opportunity seemed to demand; but Elise forestalled her.

"This is beautiful; only----" She paused.

Miss Hartwell looked up.

"Only what?"

Elise shook her head impatiently.

"You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think
of the ones you tore to pieces."

Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand.

"Let me take them for a moment, please."

Elise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her
face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the
offending names were removed.

"I think that is better."

Elise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the
reception of the sketches.

"Don't you ever get mad?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

"That would have made me awfully mad."

"But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The
flowers are."

"That wouldn't make any difference with me. I'd get mad before I
thought, and then I'd stick to it anyway."

"That is not right."

Elise looked somewhat rebuked, but more puzzled.

"How old are you?" she asked.

This was too much. Miss Hartwell could not conceal her astonishment. She
recovered quickly and answered, with a smile:

"I was twenty-five, last February."

Elise resumed her examination of the water-colours. There was a look of
satisfaction on her face.

"Oh, well, perhaps when I get to be as old as that I won't get mad,
either. How did you learn to make flowers?" Her attention was fixed all
the time on the colours.

"I took lessons."

"Is it very hard to learn?"

"Not very, for some people. Would you like to have me teach you?"

Elise's face was flushed and eager.

"Will you teach me?" she asked.

"Certainly. It will give me great pleasure."

"When can you begin?"

"Now, if you like."

Miss Hartwell had taste, and she had been under excellent instruction.
Her efforts had been praised and herself highly commended; but no
sweeter incense had ever been burned under her nostrils than the intense
absorption of her first pupil. It was not genius; it was love, pure and
simple. There was no element of self-consciousness, only a wild love of
beauty and a longing to give it expression. Nominally, at least, Miss
Hartwell was the instructor and Elise the pupil; but that did no