ed and
happy."

"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant
things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always
sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at
his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"

"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art,
and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember,
the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work.
Just see how Agnes gets on!"

Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge
it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He
could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself,
and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He
had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained
that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind,
gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and
good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not
become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did
miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been
accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie,
and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune,
and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnes
begged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen
attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt
Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small
things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked
indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and
undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for
on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw
before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the
studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant
mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair
pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their
particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his
own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian,
Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites.
Then there were