Page:Keeping the Peace.pdf/243

 quarter it was the accepted fact that the young Edward Eaton's genius had blossomed and that he was doing a wonderful thing.

He worked himself thin. Anxiety would wake him in the night and he would rise and light a candle and go shivering to see if his work still looked right to him.

One afternoon in the middle of work he stepped back from his easel and looked at his picture long and critically. Then suddenly he smiled a broad schoolboy grin and said, "Why, it seems to be finished." He was immensely surprised. "It's all done," he said—"finished."

Then Anne came and stood beside him and looked too. For a long time. She was a talkative little person and he wondered why she didn't say anything. He stole a look at her sidewise and saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"What's the matter, Anne?"

"Nothing. It's been a happy time and now it's over."

"Hm'm. We're not going to end our career with this picture."

"You'll be going to Corsica now to be with those American friends of yours."

"Not right away."

"It amazes me to think that you would have