THE LIGHT OF A NEW DAY
The crocuses are a-bloom once more. The lilac buds are bursting with
the joy of the new spring. A veil of silver-gray floats over Moose
Hillock. The idle brook, like a truant boy, dances in the sunshine,
singing to itself as it leaps from ledge to pool.
All the doors and windows of the big studio on the side looking down
the valley are open to the morning air. Through one of these Margaret
has just entered, her arms full of apple blossoms. One spray she places
in a slender blue jar, the delicate blush of the buds and the pale
green of the leaves harmonizing with the gold-brown of her marvellous
hair as she buries her face among them. All about the spacious room are
big easels, half-finished portraits, rich draperies, wide divans, old
brass, and rare porcelain.
In an easy chair, close to the window, with the fragrance of the
blossoms around her, sits a white-haired old lady with a gossamer shawl
about her shoulders. She is watching Margaret as she moves about the
room, her eyes brimming with tenderness and pride. Now and then she
looks toward a door leading into the bedroom beyond, as if expecting
someone.
Oliver stands before his easel, his palette and brushes in his hand. He
is studying the effect of a pat of color he has just laid on the
portrait of a young girl in a rich gown--the fourth full-length he has
painted this year--the most important being the one of his father
ordered by the Historical Society of Kennedy Square, and painted from
Margaret's sketches.
Malachi--the old man is very feeble--moves slowly around a square table
covered with a snow-white cloth, with seats set for four--one a high
chair with little arms. In his hands are a heap of cups and
saucers--the same Spode cups and saucers he looked after so carefully
in the old house at home. These he places near the smoking coffee-urn.
Suddenly a merry, roguish laugh is heard, and a little fellow with
gold-brown hair and big blue eyes peers in through the slowly opening
door.
The old servant stops, and his withered face breaks into a smile.
"Is dat you, honey?" he cries, with a laugh. "Come along, son. Yo'
cha'r's all ready, Marse Richard."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Fortunes of Oliver Horn, by F. Hopkinson Smith