It seemed as if I lived among them, and the illusion was greatly helped
by the vivid letters Graeme sent me from time to time. Brief notes came
now and then from Craig too, to whom I had sent a faithful account of
how I had brought Mrs. Mavor to her ship, and of how I had watched her
sail away with none too brave a face, as she held up her hand that bore
the miners' ring, and smiled with that deep light in her eyes. Ah!
those eyes have driven me to despair and made me fear that I am no great
painter after all, in spite of what my friends tell me who come in to
smoke my good cigars and praise my brush. I can get the brow and hair,
and mouth and pose, but the eyes! the eyes elude me--and the faces of
Mrs. Mavor on my wall, that the men praise and rave over, are not such
as I could show to any of the men from the mountains.
Graeme's letters tell me chiefly about Craig and his doings, and about
old man Nelson; while from Craig I hear about Graeme, and how he and
Nelson are standing at his back, and doing what they can to fill the gap
that never can be filled.
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