Perhaps she did; she had
no desire to parade her distresses or to reproach him with them. She
meant to be good--only give her time. But she must have time.
There was a book of photographs on the table that Frederick Fairfax and
his wife had collected during their wedding-tour on the Continent. It
was during the early days of the art, and the pictures were as blurred
and faded as their lives had since become. Bessie was turning them over
with languid interest, when her grandfather, perceiving how she was
employed, said he could show her some foreign views that would please
her better than those dim photographs. He unlocked a drawer in the
writing-table and produced half a dozen little sketch-books, his own and
his sister Dorothy's during their frequent travels together. It seemed
that their practice had been to make an annual tour.
While Bessie examined the contents of the sketch-books, her grandfather
stood behind her looking over her shoulder, and now and then saying a
few words in explanation, though most of the scenes were named and
dated. They were water-color drawings--bits of landscape, picturesque
buildings, grotesque and quaint figures, odd incidents of foreign life,
all touched with tender humor, and evidently by a strong and skilful
hand; and flowers, singly or in groups, full of a delicate fancy. In the
last volume of the series there were no more flowers; the scenes were of
snow-peaks and green hills, of wonderful lake-water, and boats with
awnings like the hood of a tilted cart; and the sky was that of Italy.
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