But leaving Val to her father proved a less drastic measure than Mrs. Gano anticipated. Whether because of his sentiment about the first-born--offspring of that only year of happiness and hope--or merely because her wildness was a distraction in his brief moments of respite from crushing cares, at all events, he looked upon the child with a lenient eye. He had her much about him when he was at home, smiled at recitals of her escapades, and called her his amiable firebrand, never in the least realizing that the overflow of animal spirits, which in rare hours of ease were his diversion and delight, might be to others a chronic bewilderment, and a not infrequent torment. "Her mother," said the elder Mrs. Gano, not thoroughly understanding the situation--"her mother has utterly spoiled the child." "No, no," said John Gano, smiling. "Val was born like that. I've never known anybody with such high spirits." "'Spirits?' Nonsense! _Fever._ And you, every one of you help to aggravate her unnatural activity of mind and body. Meanwhile, my advice to you is: Don't make an idol of your eldest daughter. It's bad enough in the case of a boy, but no girl survives it." Mrs. Gano returned home with little loss of time. Her daughter-in-law's higgledy-piggledy house-keeping, the "slackness" that was not all ill-health, coupled with the ubiquitous and unquiet presence of Val, made the elder lady long for her peaceful home in the West. Her going left behind a memory of awe and a vivid sense of relief. Valeria the elder, with improved health, or else strung up to a semblance of it by the potent ghost of a dear ambition, began her studies in art. She took out a course of lessons in modelling at the Cooper Institute. The story of those months may not be written here. We will not dog her through her days of disillusionment, her shrinking from the curiosity of the students, her amazement at their facility, her heart-sinking at their youth. As the weeks went on the teacher, an Italian of fine and gentle countenance, looked at her far more often than he looked at her work; and yet it was observed by the merciless young crew in the studio that her blundering attempts were inspected with an interest and frequency not bestowed on their more creditable efforts. Signor Conti leaned over her one day, speaking kindly phrases in broken English about the new attempt she was making. "Don't! don't, please!" she said, on a sudden impulse. "Understand that at least I _know_ it's bad." "Oh, it will be better," he answered, gently. "No," she said, very low, "it will never be much better. I've waited too long." "You must not feel discouraged." He leaned lower and spoke under his breath. "You may yet find great happiness by means of your art." She shook her head, and when she could steady her voice said: "I'm going home." The man's face changed. "You will not do that!" "Yes." "It would be another mistake, I think." "Another?"