tive model; it seemed full of pain and
loss; the world looked to be full of other designs more desirable.

"So that there were hardly any but that wandered from it, to paint
pictures of their own; there was hardly, if ever, a great or a true and
patient artist--for they are the same thing.

"Some found the colors at hand so brilliant, and were so possessed with
the beauty of dreams of their own, that they spent long years in
painting for themselves splendid houses in bewitching landscapes, red
passion roses, and heaps of glittering gold, that looked like
treasures, but were nothing.

"Some painted dark, sad glimpses of earth and sea and sky that were
called beautiful, the skill in them was so perfect. Looking at them,
one saw only the drear night drawing on.

"But there were some who had no great dreams of their own to work out,
or if they had they turned from them with obedience above all: and
many, many, broken-hearted from their failure in their own designs, who
turned now to follow the Master's model. And it was strange, but as
they regarded it intently and faithfully there grew to be in it for
them a beauty ever more and more surpassing all earthly dreams.

"They were dim of sight and trembling of hand; often they mixed the
colors wrong, they spilled them, they made great blotches and mistakes;
but they washed them out with tears and went to work again, yearning
pitifully after the model; in hope or despair, living or dying, their
fingers still moved at the task as they kept looking there.

"And always the Master knew. This was the strangest of all, that some
of the dimmest, wavering outlines, some of the saddest blotted details,
were the beautifullest in his eyes, because he read just the depth of
the endeavor underneath; until, in this light, as he lifted it up, some
poor, weary, tearful, bungled work shone fairer than the sun!"

Keeping faithful watch of the clock, Uncle Benny at the appointed hour
had given up the baby to Vesty, to go and bring the children home from
school. We heard him in the distance still singing joyfully his "Sail
away to Galilee!"

"There is a faithful artist," I said, and smiled; "would God I had come
up to him, with his unceasing watch over the little ones! And Blind
Rodgers too, who never complains, and who will not trouble anybody, but
keeps his life so spotless."

Vesty lay very still. "Do you think Notely was painting a picture of
his own?" she said. "Do you think I