Whatever her
thoughts may have been, she was soon interrupted. Waldo came close to her,
and standing still, produced with awkwardness from his breast-pocket a
small carved box.
"I made it for you," he said, holding it out.
"I like it," she said, examining it carefully.
The workmanship was better than that of the grave-post. The flowers that
covered it were delicate, and here and there small conical protuberances
were let in among them. She turned it round critically. Waldo bent over
it lovingly.
"There is one strange thing about it," he said earnestly, putting a finger
on one little pyramid. "I made it without these, and I felt something was
wrong; I tried many changes, and at last I let these in, and then it was
right. But why was it? They are not beautiful in themselves."
"They relieve the monotony of the smooth leaves, I suppose."
He shook his head as over a weighty matter.
"The sky is monotonous," he said, "when it is blue, and yet it is
beautiful. I have thought of that often; but it is not monotony, and it is
not variety makes beauty. What is it? The sky, and your face, and this
box--the same thing is in them all, only more in the sky and in your face.
But what is it?"
She smiled.
"So you are at your old work still. Why, why, why? What is the reason?
It is enough for me," she said, "if I find out what is beautiful and what
is ugly, what is real and what is not.
Pages:
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256