‘_Liebe_ Sara, Herr Falkenberg wishes to be introduced,’ after which he had remained beside her chair, speaking of two of her pictures, and discussing them with an admiration, and at the same time a discrimination, which instantly showed her that report had not belied the keenness of his critical powers and the purity of his taste in such matters. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Sara to herself, repressing a smile of satisfaction, ‘if she were very amiable, and listened with attention to his criticisms, he might some day give her an order; and if she could say to friends and fellow-students, “I am painting this for Herr Falkenberg,” it would be as good, indeed much better, than fifty laudatory but unprofitable criticisms.’ ‘See!’ said he, as they came to the end of the terrace—and he pointed to the round shoulder of a hill, round the foot of which a bend of the river flowed in a silver curve, while the setting sun gave the most mellow and warm tints to the stretch of the landscape in the background—‘that is almost perfect; there is a meaning in the scene—a poetry. Do you not see it?’ ‘Indeed I do!’ she replied; the deep look settling in her eyes, which always visited them when she looked upon grand or beautiful things, and which alone would have made her face a rare one. ‘I see it!’ she continued; ‘and I have studied and sketched it often since I came here, and the result has been despair! I hate myself, and every attempt I make. I don’t think landscape is my forte.’ ‘I don’t agree with you. I think you ought to study landscape. I believe, from the examination I have given to those two little pictures of yours, that you might attain high rank as a painter, both of landscape and _genre_; with hard study, of course.’ ‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg, you are flattering! It is impossible. I often think how presumptuous it is in me to imagine that I shall ever do well in either. Why should I?’ ‘Why should you not?’ he asked, smiling. ‘You are ambitious.’ He had seated himself on the arm of a bench at the end of the terrace, and Sara was leaning upon the parapet, her arms folded on the ledge of it; her glorious eyes gazing out upon the feast of colour, of rich calm beauty which lay below. As he uttered the last words, the deep musing look left those eyes; another fire flashed like lightning into them. Her lips parted, the delicate nostril quivered. She raised her head, and looked full at her companion. ‘Yes, I am. I am as ambitious as a man—the worse for me, I suppose.’ ‘I do not say so. How old are you?’ The question was put with a grave, patronising directness which was free from the faintest trace of curiosity or impertinence. She answered it in the same spirit: ‘I am twenty-three.’ ‘Ah! it will be many years, no doubt, before you do anything that will live. It is a toilsome ascent to the high peaks and pure snows of real lasting fame, but it may be accomplished by a single-hearted perseverance.’