oil painting artist

casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to
the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think
those day visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable
illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your
aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your
look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit
follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal
heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the
hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself,
Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and
seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say- "My
fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are
absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my
brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough
tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter."
You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the
weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think
it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight.
'Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my