“It’s a very selfish kind of goodness at present, Mr. Swift, and I fancy some day the obligation of the acquaintance will be on my side.” “Jan,” said the schoolmaster, “take Rufus wi’ ye, and run that errand I telled ye. Rufus’ll carry your basket.” When they had gone, he turned earnestly to the painter. “Sir, I’m speaking to ye out of my ignorance and my anxiety. Ye want the lad to be a painter. Will he be a great painter? I’m reminding you of what ye’ll know better than me (though not by yourself, for Jan tells me you’re a grand artist), that a man may have the ambition and the love, and some talent for an art, and yet be just without that divine spark which the gods withhold. Sir, GOD forbid that I should undervalue the pure pleasure of even that little gift; but it’s ill for a lad when he has just that much of an art to keep him from a thrifty trade—and _no more_.” The painter replied as earnestly as Master Swift had spoken,— “Jan’s estimate of me is weaker than his judgment in art is wont to be. I speak to understanding ears, and you will know that I have some true feeling for my art, when I tell you that I know enough to know that I shall never be a great painter; and it will help you to put confidence in my assurance that, if he lives, _Jan will_.” Deep emotion kept the old man silent. It was a mixed feeling,—first, intense pride and pleasure, and then a pang of disappointment. Had he not been the first to see genius in the child? Had he not built upon him one more ambition for himself,—the ambition of training the future great man? And now another had taken his office. “You look disappointed,” said the artist. “It is the vile selfishness in me, sir. I had hoped the boy’s gifts would have been what I could have trained at my own hearth. It is only one more wilful fancy, once more thwarted.” “Selfish I am sure it is not!” said the painter, hotly; “and as to such benevolence being thwarted as a sort of punishment for I don’t know what, I believe nothing of the kind.” “You don’t know, sir,” said the old man, firmly. “Not that I’m speaking of the Lord’s general dealings. There are tender, gentle souls, I know well, who seem only to grow the purer and better for having the desire of their eyes granted to them; but there are others whom, for their own good, the Father of all sees needful to chasten to the end.” “My experience lies in another direction,” said the painter, impetuously. “With what awe do you suppose indolent men, whose easy years of self-indulgent life have been broken by no real calamity, look upon others on whose heads blow falls after blow, though their existence is an hourly struggle towards perfection? There are some stagnant pools whose peace the Angel never disturbs. Does GOD, who takes pleasure in perfecting the saint and pardoning the sinner, forget some of us because we are not worth remembering?”