meant for this kind of thing. There is surely something better in store for you than the dry bones of art."
Yes, the picture was bad. Helen realized this as she looked at it in the fading light. But it did not matter. Sorrow for the loss of the lesser thing only added glory to the greater.
She seized a large brush, and, with a pretty, melodramatic motion, dashed a long streak of red paint across the canvas.
"Vanish!" she said, half laughing. "So my hopes perish." She pushed the easel away from her.
"Oh, Miss Helen!" cried a wildly excited voice. "Oh, Miss Helen! what do you 'spose?"
It was Annabel, breathless with excitement. Her little straw hat was hanging by its elastic to her neck. The pupils of her eyes were dilated.
"I always thought it was you," gasped Annabel.
"Thought what was I?" asked Miss Wistar, bewildered.
