"In memory of last Sunday he wrote he would
not come, but Ida sent a telegram asking him to be here without
fail. I took it over to the station for her, and made sure that
my uncle received it. She will puzzle him more than she has the
rest of us, I suppose, and I am quite curious to see the result."
The artist made no reply, but went to his room and tried to work on
his pictures. He was more than curious--he was deeply interested,
but felt that he was trenching on delicate ground. The relations
between the father and daughter were too sacred, he believed, for
even sympathetic observation on his part.
He soon threw aside his work. The inspiration of the morning was
all gone, and in its place had come an unaccountable dissatisfaction
with himself and the world in general. He had left the garden with
a sense of exhilaration that made life appear beautiful and full
of richest promise. He had been saved from disaster that would
have been crushing; his object in coming to the country had been
accomplished, and the Undine he discovered HAD received a woman's
soul that was blending the perfect but discordant features into an
exquisitely beautiful face.
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