so chill, so small and lone.
Have we to higher regions gone?
To give the key Peter was not prone.
I saw the sacramental stone
And laid my hallowed hands thereon.
Alas! the bread and wine were gone.
With dazzling radiance all things shone,
'Twas base deceit; I was undone."

Miss Burns was touched to see that his thoughts were still engaged with
the little dancer. On another occasion he said to her:

"I am not fitted to be a physician. I am incapable of making the
sacrifice to humanity of pursuing an occupation that depresses me so.
I have a riotous imagination. Perhaps I could be a writer. But I am
determined to become a sculptor. While I was sick, especially at the end
of the second week, I remodelled all the works of Phidias and Michael
Angelo. Don't misunderstand me, Eva. In becoming a sculptor, I am no
longer ambitious of distinction. I shall merely be rendering homage to
the greatness of art. While remaining a faithful workman asking nothing
for myself, I may in time succeed in mastering the nude form sufficiently
to produce at least one good piece."

"You know I have confidence in your talent," said Miss Burns.

"Then, what do you think of this plan, Miss Eva? The income from my
wife's estate is about five thousand marks, enough for the education of
my three children. I receive an annuity of three thousand marks. Do you
think we five could end our days in peace in a little house with a
studio, say, near Florence?"

Miss Burns's answer to the weighty question was a hearty laugh.

She was intimately acquainted with the artistic disposition and so,
perhaps, was actually well fitted to educate adult children. She had been
the good friend and comrade of two or three great artists in France
and England, and had a soothing way of entering into the work, the
interests, and the experiences of such extraordinary men. Neither of her
parents had been an artist. Her father had been a plain business man.
Yet both had possessed that veneration and love of art and artists which
is almost as rare as the creative gift. In the museum at Birmingham,
there were pictures by Burne-Jones and Rossetti and a collection of
drawings, the gift of her father while still a prosperous man. She
herself was not convinced that she had an imperative calling to art. Her
passion was to be useful to art in serving artists. This was not the
first time, and Frederick knew it, that she had acted the part of the
good Samaritan