courage had gone and it seemed that some terrible thing must be true, but I dared not think what it might be. Now I am strong again and I will thank you and go on."

"Where will you go, my child?" said the old woman.

She looked out of the door and saw that the wood was so dense that only a[Pg 18] dim light pierced through the boughs far above her head.

[Pg 18]

"It is always twilight here," said the old woman.

"But you can tell me the way, surely you know the way out?" she begged.

"I know my way," said the old woman, "but not your way. I come from the other side."

"And how do you come?" she asked, almost fearfully, for something about the old woman began to frighten her.

"I follow my bees," said the old woman.

"But I cannot wait for your bees," she cried, vexed and alarmed. "I must get back—I was mad to have come here. I have work to do. Everything has gone wrong with me since—since—oh, I must go back and get at my work!"

"And what is your work?" the old woman asked.

"I am an artist," she said.

"What is that?"

"I paint pictures," she said.

[Pg 19]"Why do you do that?" asked the old woman.

[Pg 19]

"Why? Why?" she repeated. "Why does anyone do his work? Because I am told by good workmen that I do it well, and that I shall every year do it better. Because I would give up food and sleep for it. Because I shall, if I live, some day do some one thing that will be remembered after I am past all work."

"You will never do that with a picture," said the old woman quietly.

She stamped her foot upon the earthen floor.

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