With this dismal peroration Mrs. Fabian sat as far back in her chair as disciplined adipose would permit, and shuddered again at the wind.
"Is a son an easier proposition then, in that madding crowd of yours?"
"A boy does seem to have his life more plainly mapped out than a girl. Edgar is in his father's office." The speaker sighed unconsciously. "What is your boy like, Mary?"
Mrs. Sidney kept silence for a thoughtful moment before answering.
"He is like Pegasus harnessed to a coal-wagon," she said at last slowly.
"How very extraordinary. What do you mean?"
Instead of replying, Mrs. Sidney went to a table in the far corner of the cabin and brought therefrom a portfolio which she opened on the chair beside her guest.
A mass of sketches was disclosed, – charcoal, water-color, oil. Mrs. Sidney lifted one, and held it before the other's eyes.
Mrs. Fabian raised her lorgnette.
"Why, it's you, Mary; and it's capital!" she ejaculated.
Another and another sheet was offered for her inspection.
"Why, they're all of you. The artist must be in love with you."
Mary Sidney gave her a slight smile. "I hope so, a little, but it was Hobson's choice when it came to models. Phil seldom could get any one beside me. Here's one of his father. He had to do it slyly behind a newspaper, for Allan is rather impatient of Phil's tendency."
"So that is what your boy is at! It's real talent, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," returned the mother with quiet conviction.
"And where is he studying?"
"He has never studied anything but mining engineering. He is working with his father here."
The unconscious sadness of the speaker's tone impressed her listener.
"He does landscapes, too," went on the mother, lifting one after another of the sketches of mountain, valley, and streamlet, "a little of everything, you see." Mrs. Sidney regarded the work wistfully.
"Why, they're lovely," declared Mrs. Fabian. "Why don't you pin them up on the walls?"
"Because it rather annoys Phil's father, to see them, and it only tantalizes the boy."
"So Mr. Sidney isn't willing he should study?"
"I don't think he would thwart us if he saw any hope in it, but one can't enter on the life of an art-student without any capital. Allan knows there is a living for Phil in the work of a mining engineer, so he has discouraged the boy's talent."
"It is a great responsibility to thwart a child's bent," declared Mrs. Fabian impressively.
"I have always felt so. I used to be very restless and anxious about it. My husband seemed to feel that because Phil was a strapping boy, a natural athlete, that painting was a womanish profession for him. He had the ability to help him into mining engineering lines, and he always pooh-poohed the idea of Phil's attempting to be an artist." Mrs. Sidney gave a little shrug. "We didn't have the money anyway, so Allan naturally has had his way."
"One can't blame him," returned Mrs. Fabian, who had relaxed as the wind ceased to shake the cabin. "Painting is even more precarious than acting; yet what a talent the boy has!"
She held before her a bold sketch in charcoal of the mountain-side in the winter – few in strokes, but striking in its breadth and power.
"He has had an offer from a newspaper in Denver to take the position of cartoonist. His ability for caricature is good. See these of Allan."
Mrs. Fabian laughed as she examined the small sheets. "I haven't seen your husband for ten years, Mary, but these recall his clean-cut face better than a photograph would, I believe. Phil rather gets back at his father in these, doesn't he?"
"Oh, Allan laughed at them too. He's secretly proud of Phil's cleverness, even while he discourages it. He tells him it is all right for an accomplishment, but a forlorn hope for a living."
"And right he is," responded Mrs. Fabian, laying down the sketches. "Look at Aunt Mary's experience. There she has lived alone all these years and given her life to the attempt to make a name in the artistic world. I go sometimes to see her, of course, for there she is right in town, but her pictures" – Mrs. Fabian lifted her eyes to the rafters – "they're daubs!"
"I know," returned Mary Sidney, looking back into the fire. "She sent me one on my last birthday. She never forgets her name-child."
Mrs. Fabian laughed. "I fancy you wished she would, for that time."
"No," returned the hostess, slowly, "I think Aunt Mary sees more than she has the technique to express. She gets an effect."
Mrs. Fabian raised her eyebrows. "She certainly does. She makes me want to run a mile."
"The gift led to our having a little correspondence. I sent her a couple of Phil's sketches and she was delighted with them."
"She might well be," was the answer. There was a brief silence, then the visitor continued: "So Phil is something of a bone of contention between you and his father?"
"It is our only difference. Yet it can scarcely even be called that, because it is a fact that we haven't the money to give him the start he should have."
Mrs. Fabian looked at her cousin curiously.
"So this new calmness of yours – this repose. It is resignation, at least, if not despair."
Mary Sidney smiled at the fire. "No," she returned, "I told you. It is faith."
"Religion?"
"Yes, religion. Not the sort of ideas we were brought up in, Isabel. Something quite different."
"What is it, then? Where did you find it?"
"It found me."
"How mysterious! Is that wind coming up again, Mary?"
"How it blew that night!" said Mary Sidney thoughtfully, still looking into the fire. "It was just before Thanksgiving, I remember, five years ago. Allan and I had come up to the mine, Phil had gone back to college, and one night a belated traveller, overtaken by the storm which came up as suddenly as this, stopped at the door and asked if he could stay all night with us. He was one of these vital men, full of energy, who seem to exhale good cheer. Allan thoroughly enjoyed a talk with him that evening, and when we went to bed I remember his sighing and remarking that a man must be either a fool or a philosopher who could keep such an optimistic outlook on life as this Mr. Tremaine. I returned that perhaps our guest had struck a gold-mine here in the mountains, and I remember how Allan grumbled – 'Either that, or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.'
"Allan came in here once, where we had left the guest to sleep on the couch, to see if he wanted anything; and he found him reading in front of the embers. When he came back he remarked: 'That fellow has a smile that doesn't usually last beyond the tenth year.' The next morning dawned bright and our guest was in haste to depart. He tried in the nicest way to pay us for taking in a stranger, and we quite honestly told him that if any money were to pass it should go from us to him for cheering our exile. He took from