seemed to June a mere daub, black, dilapidated, old and worthless.
She could not conceal her disappointment. "I don't call that anything."
"No!" He could not conceal his disappointment either. "Take this glass." A microscope was handed to her. "Please look at it ve-ry ve-ry closely while I hold it for you in the light."
June gave the canvas a most rigorous scrutiny, but she had to own at last that the only thing she could see was dirt.
"Can't you see water?"
"Where?"
With his finger nail the young man found water.
"No," said June stoutly. "I don't see a single drop. And that's a pity, because in my opinion, it would be none the worse for a good wash."
This was a facer but he met it valiantly.
"Don't you see trees?"
"Where are the trees?"
The young man disclosed trees with his finger nail.
"I can't see a twig."
"But you can see a cloud." With his finger nail he traced a cloud.
"I only see dirt and smudge," said June the down-*right. "To my mind this isn't a picture at all."
"Surely, you can see a windmill?"
"A windmill! Why there's not a sign of one."
"Wait till it's really clean," said William with the optimism of genius. He took up a knife and began delicately to scrape that dark surface from which already he had half removed a top layer of paint that some inferior artist had placed there.
