"Did you ever see this picture that Arthur left in his room when he went
away last fall?" she asked. "I don't know whether he did it himself or
not."
She placed it in the light and left the room. Beth recognized it almost
instantly.
"Why, it's that poem of mine that Arthur liked best of all!" she
thought.
Yes, it was the very same--the grey rocks rising one above another, the
broad white shore, and the lonely cottage, with the dark storm-clouds
lowering above it, and the fisherman's bride at the window, pale and
anxious, her sunny hair falling about her shoulders as she peered far
out across the sea--the black, storm-tossed sea--and far out among the
billows the tiny speck of sail that never reached the shore. Beth was no
connoisseur of art, but she knew the picture before her was intensely
beautiful, even sublime. There was something in it that made her _feel_.
It moved her to tears even as Arthur's music had done. No need to tell
her both came from the same hand. Besides, no one else had seen that
poem but Arthur. And Arthur could paint like this, and yet she had said
he had not an artist soul. She sighed faintly. Poor Arthur! Perhaps,
after all, she had been mistaken.
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