“Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn’t buy it. I would rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. Make it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something to show that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be pained if it can do no good?” “For the sake of sympathy, I should say,” answered Percivale. “They would rejoin, ‘It is only a picture. Come along.’ No; give people hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything.” “I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the window.” He looked at me curiously as he spoke. “I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and make the other look more terrible.” “Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own meaning into it.” Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the floor. I turned away. “You like that better, don’t you, papa?” said Wynnie tremulously. “It is beautiful, certainly,” I answered. “And if it were only one, I should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the same thing more weakly embodied.” I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, for his own sake as well as for my daughter’s, and I had expected better things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale,” I said. “I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise which I have little doubt your art at least deserves.” “I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain me.” “But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have at hand to show me.”