and
Annie Bray now. Moreover, she, too, changed as the months wore on. When
did I ever imagine, with all my growing plans and manhood, that she also
was to have her work and purpose in the world? Yet she had made her
visit to Hillside, had been not only amused and delighted, but
instructed, by all she saw there. I was too deeply engrossed in
self-development to continue my attention to her studies; but Miss
Merton, inspired by Miss Darry's example, or attracted by the modest
sweetness so congenial to her own womanly character, undertook the
unwonted occupation of teaching; and Mr. Lang, greatly to my surprise,
encouraged her in it. Three afternoons in the week Annie went to
Hillside to receive a course of instruction, barren of system and
conducted with supreme disregard of plainer and more useful branches,
yet bringing out in a graceful way all her peculiarly refined tastes.
Annie's hours rarely admitted of my walking home with her; and though
occasionally she stopped at the forge, on her way through the village,
it was only for a moment, and that often a busy one with me. She had
grown taller and paler, sadder in expression, too, I fancied,
notwithstanding the new interest at Hillside. But then she was leaving
childhood behind her; her father had been more rough than ever since I
left him; and with a momentary pity and wonder that she was more shy of
my fond and brotherly ways than formerly, I ascribed it to these
ordinary causes, and kept steadily at my work. It was not for me, the
_protege_ of so brilliant a woman as Frank Darry, and a rising genius,
to pause in my career for the pale cheeks of the village blacksmith's
daughter.

My intercourse with Mr. Leopold did not become more familiar with time.
The idea of his not looking like a genuine artist, the disappointment
and failure to comprehend his pictures, changed into awe of the inner
force of the man, as I beheld his patient, earnest labor. To my shallow
comprehension of the worth of genius, his persistent effort, after the
attainment of all I hoped to realize, was marvellous. He was rich,
famed, cultivated, yet the ideal excellence hovered ever above him,
waiting like a resurrection body to clothe the escaped soul of
inspiration; and for this he toiled more unremittingly than I in my
struggle for existence even in the world of Art. The secret of this
man's soul was not, however, revealed to my questioning. Ever
considerate and kind, he was no friend in any se