The
master who painted the picture was Corot.
Hammond motioned Priscilla to sit down opposite to it.
"There is summer." he said; "peace, absolute repose. You have not to
go to it; it comes to you."
He did not say any more, but walked away to look at another picture in
a different part of the gallery.
Prissie clasped her hands; all the agitation and eagerness went out of
her face. She leaned back in her chair. Her attitude partook of the
quality of the picture and became restful. Hammond did not disturb her
for several moments.
"I am going to show you something different now," he said, coming up
to her almost with reluctance. "There is one sort of rest; I will now
show you a higher. Here stand so. The light falls well from this
angle. Now, what do you see?"
"I don't understand it," said Prissie after a long, deep gaze.
"Never mind, you see something. Tell me what you see."
Priscilla looked again at the picture.
"I see a woman," she said at last in a slow, pained kind of voice. "I
can't see her face very well, but I know by the way she lies back in
that chair that she is old and dreadfully tired. Oh, yes, I know well
that she is tired-- see her hand stretched out there-- her hand and
her arm-- how thin they are-- how worn-- and----"
"Hard worked," interrupted Hammond.
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