tance the blue line of the boundless ocean. Gysbert's eyes grew misty with longing.
"Ah! if I had but brush and colors I would paint this," he sighed. "I would paint it so that all the world would think they looked upon the very scene itself!"
"Some day thou shalt have them, Gysbert, if thou dost but possess thyself with patience," answered his sister, with the gentle yet authoritative air of her three years' senority. “We will raise many pigeons and train them. Then, when the price we have obtained from them is sufficient, thou shalt buy an artist’s outfit, and paint to thy heart’s content. Meantime thou must practice with thy charcoal and pencil, and wait till the war is over."
Both sat silent for a while, each occupied with thoughts that were, in all probability, very similar. The little word "war" recalled to them memories, pictures, speculations and fears, all very painful and puzzling. Neither
