ter very much.
Call them self-discipline, and patience, and they are very important,
above all, to an artist. I have heard people say," continued Mr
Goodwin, reflectively, "that certain failings of temper and self-control
are to be excused in artists, because their natures are sensitive. Now,
that seems to me the very reason that they should be better than other
people--more open to good influences. And I believe, when this has not
been so, it has been owing rather to a smallness of character than to
their artistic temperament."

Delia smiled.

"I don't know," she said, "if I have anything of an artist in me, but I
have a small character, for I am always losing my temper--except when I
am with you, Professor. If I talked to you every day, and had plenty of
time to practise, I should have the good temper of an angel."

"But not of a human being. That must come, not from outward things
being pleasant, but from inward things being right. Believe an old man,
my dear, who has had some trials and disappointments in his life, the
best sort of happiness is his--

"Whose high endeavours are an inward light
Which makes the path before him always bright.

"Those endeavours may not bring fame or success, but they do bring light
to shine on all those everyday things you call dusty, and turn them to
gold."

Delia stood by her music-stand, her eyes fixed with a far-away gaze on
the window, and a rebellious little frown on her brow.

"But I should _love_ to be famous," she suddenly exclaimed, reaching up
her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. "Professor, I should
_love_ it! Fancy being able to play so as to speak to thousands of
people, and make them hear what you say; to make them glad one moment
and sorry the next; to have it in your power to move a whole crowd, as
some musicians have! It must be a splendid life. Shouldn't _you_ like
it?"

Mr Goodwin's glance rested on his enthusiastic pupil with a little
amusement.

"It's rather late in the day for me to consider the question, isn't it?"
he said.

"Didn't you ever want to go away from Dornton and play to people who
understand what you mean," asked Delia, impatiently. "Instead of
playing the organ in Saint Mary's and teaching me, you might be a famous
musician in London, with crowds of people flocking to hear you."

"Perhaps," said the Professor, quietly; "who knows?"

"Then," she continued, dropping her arms and turning to him with sudden
de