centre, and on either side rows of beings made of round balls of mud and little sticks. The sheep had white legs and arms. You peeled the bark off for them. You left it on for the goats. It was all very dramatic. Your art always was half literature."
Howard said nothing.
"And now," continued Anne audaciously, "it's all literature."
"I remember one woolly lamb that you made out of clay," the young man remarked. "It looked as if it could bleat. Your father was so pleased. And I was very proud of it."
"That was your way," said Anne. "You liked to hear me praised. I was horribly jealous. Once I hid in the parlour and lay on the floor kicking and crying, when you had drawn an angel and father had called you a genius."
"It looked just like you, Nannie," said the artist. "I can see now its little round cheeks. Its robe was patterned after your blue gingham apron."
