“‘Think anything!’ Of course he did; ‘gems,’ he said, ‘they would be, with a little touching-up,’ which he meant to show you about. Though how a bit of canvas can be turned into ‘gems,’—which are rubys, and diamonds, and such like, I take it, beats me. But that was what he said; and where picters is concerned, Ross aint to be disputed, let me tell you. It was all I could do to keep him from turning half of my picters out of doors; though mercy knows the frames alone cost Carter enough to break a common man; for we bought such as took up the most gold, meaning to have enough for our money.” Ruth lay on her couch while the woman was speaking, lost in a soft glow of gratitude. The one dream of her life gave promise of realization. How diligently she had worked out the little knowledge of drawing and color, which had been a part of her education, when she was able to study, and before the great affliction fell upon her. How much thought she had given, how earnestly she had toiled when this one pursuit became the passion and forlorn hope of her life. Oh, it was heavenly! God had given some power even to her! Those delicate fingers which she clasped over her bosom in a sudden rush of gratitude, had the subtle craft of creating beautiful objects, which, in their turn, melted into gold. Could this be? Was the woman yonder with all that flutter of lace and fringe about her, a reality? The girl lifted herself slowly from her cushions, and looked around the room. Mrs. Laurence had left it. Something in the kitchen required her presence, and she was getting restive under the infliction of that kind-hearted woman’s conversation; so she had glided out like a shadow, scarcely caring whether she was missed or not. CHAPTER XVII. THE FIRST BANK NOTES. “She has gone—mother, I mean,” said Ruth, troubled with a fear that their visitor might be offended. Mrs. Carter turned her head with a little disdainful toss. “Yes, I see. Not very good manners; but to be expected.” “Mother is so much alone, she sometimes forgets.” “I should think as much. But that is neither here nor there. If old women choose to cut up rusty they are welcome, for anything I care. But we were talking about the picters for my boudoir. How long will it take you to paint em?” “Then you were really in earnest? You meant it?” cried Ruth, catching her breath, and clasping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Meant it? Of course I did. Ross has just ripped every one of my picters off of the wall, and says they aint worth the frames, which are lovely, Miss; and I’m sure the paintings were just as bright as red, and green, and yellow could make them. But, hoity-toity! my gentleman just pitched them into the coach-house; and I solemnly believe they are hung up in Battle’s room this minute. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘fill them empty frames with something worth looking at.’