had
her father's love for form and color, though she didn't paint. Instead,
she filled the upper gallery of that old fortress with a collection of
pictures that would make any gallery in Europe famous. And she added to
it continually, until a quarter of all her husband's wealth hung in that
room.

"Those pictures were the things that drove me to this pass. I don't know
where my talent comes from; but I soon found out how much was in me. I
would sit in that hall by the day, looking, studying, puzzling out the
secrets of line, and color, and technique, and conception, in the
best--always the best, things, you understand; till I felt that I _must_
begin work myself. So I went to my father one day and asked him for
paints and pencils, brushes and canvas. At first he didn't believe in
me. But I begged so long that at last he sent to Choelm for a little
outfit, and I took them up to an empty room in the castle, where Marie
and I always played in winter, when the family were in Warsaw; and there
I worked in secret, at my picture."

Here Joseph paused to finish his wine, and then lay back rather wearily,
while Ivan replenished the glass. He was plainly exhausted again; and
his host, interested as he was, suggested that the tale be finished
later. Joseph, however, protested. He felt himself a trespasser both on
Ivan's time and on his charity. Yet he sorely needed help, and Ivan, if
he were to give it, must know all his history.

"It was spring, sir, when my first picture was finished; and I had come
to feel that the winter and my hopes were wasted. I was terribly
disappointed in myself; because I had never dreamed that imagination,
love of the work, and tremendous confidence, cannot produce finished
paintings. My father, though, had come to be interested in what I was
doing, and insisted on seeing what I had accomplished. I stood with my
back to him, sick with mortification, till I heard him whisper one word
of high praise. Then I found, to my amazement, that he was astonished at
my success.--I was only fifteen; nevertheless, I was furious, because,
you see, my portrait of my sister had not the qualities of the
Velasquez, the Guido, the David, or the little Vandyke that I had
worshipped, each in its turn.

"But from that hour my father became enthusiastic about my talent. He
grew as eager as I for the return of the Prince, in order to get his
advice about my future. We were both sure of his help and patronage when
he should