The members of the family had distinct and original personalities—true, they did not seem to be the complement of their forms of artistic achievement; Collin’s pictures never reminded one of Collin nor Ernestine’s programs have many of her own favorites, but back of their work, a haven to temperament, stood these people’s personalities which carried them bravely on the tidal wave of success. Whether or not something else stood behind these personalities and formed the universal trinity of expression was to be determined later—when one did not suggest cut glass punch bowls with hooks as wedding gifts! But as Thurley lay down to sleep, too excited to remember Birge’s Corners, she determined with amusing worldliness to set to work developing her own personality, to both pamper and crystallize it, pitting it against this wild rose Thurley who blushed and who sneezed—unpoetic truth—just when she should not! CHAPTER XIII Instead of the Christmas season making Thurley homesick, it lent a vivacious joy that caused Ernestine Christian and Polly Harris to marvel at her development. The atmosphere of the city had its foothold. She thought, if at all, of the Christmas preparations in Birge’s Corners, with passing scorn. Thurley’s thoughts had been rather well regulated by routine until she was left with but scant time for reminiscence. No lesson had been done away with but more added. She spent twice as much time at Hobart’s studio, either with him or with the Bohemian singing teacher whom she loathed but who knew how to guide her voice into unsurpassed channels. Then there were hateful languages to conquer and, if she disliked the social secretary or the gymnast or the corps of other workers who were making her “ready” to sing for her supper on the opera stage, they continued to appear at regular intervals until Thurley realized that Bliss Hobart had had method in his madness, for he had seen the need of curbing a rebellious and turbulent spirit, one that tired too quickly of routine for its own good. In reality, he was teaching her the grind, which most artists never escape, in a condensed and merciful fashion. Thurley was beginning to realize even more of this great question of “values.” In the old days at the Corners when gray, sullen moods conquered her sunny self, she had been wont to take refuge within the box-car wagon or the hilly cemetery, to sob without reason or plan rebellions of which neither Dan nor Betsey Pilrig could have had the slightest understanding! Now she called a taxi and drove through the parks or out suburban roads, thinking the same quality of thoughts with different and widely varied guises and returning, as she had done from the box-car wagon or cemetery, light hearted, dangerously glad for every one, singing like a meadow lark and insisting on doing things for whosoever might come her way almost to the extent of exaggeration.