Another explanation of Miles’ conduct brought a curious sort of consolation and corrective. This was that he simply wanted to be free--but did not have the strength. The opportunity had been placed in his way to leave, and, feeling himself ultimately unequal to marriage and its burdens and limitations, he believed he ought to take it. His love still held him tenuously to her and the children, his sentiment for their past together, his need for a woman’s support--whatever it was--and he could not find the courage to make the break. He had probably been strengthened in entertaining this purpose by the knowledge that somebody had turned up from Thornhill, and she would be taken care of. Much as that base notion offended her, this last theory was frankly pleasing. It was better than the thought of betrayal with another woman. By the time she had reached this state of enlightenment she was so skilled in reading poor Miles’ motives that she felt as though she had acquired supernatural powers of clairvoyance. The summer was more than half gone. But she had not thought exclusively of Miles. She had the children to care for and teach a whole new set of fascinating things, and she had her painting. The opportunity presented by these untrammelled days was not to be lost over heart-burnings, and a new power and certainty had come to her. She wasted less time carrying her attempts to the last degree of finish. She was trying by experiment after experiment to get the feel and solidity of the earth and to express her warm daily contact with it. She had been very timid toward Osprey where painting was concerned. She had resolved never to speak to him about it and to keep out of his way while she was at it. One ought not to expect to rent the cottage of a famous painter and have advice thrown in. But it was he who sought her in the orchard one morning and made comments for which she was grateful, because she understood them and could profit by them, and also because they were not uncomplimentary. “Most of us,” he said, “gamble frightfully in choosing art as a career. That’s why there are so many hopeless artists. We mistake an urge for a talent, and the devil of it is there is no sure way of knowing whether we’re on the right road or not. But I think you are. In the first place you have the steady enthusiasm and not just mere plugging industry. In the second place you are a self-teacher. Everybody worth a hang is that.” They were the first really golden words she had ever heard, and she was certain afterward that simply hearing them had improved her work miraculously--made her surer of the knowledge she had gained and helped her to discard excrescences.