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He asked his sister for oils.

“You are too young,” thought the artistic Faith, who was a loving, noble sister.

“But I must, I must.”

One day his mother entered the sanded room. The white sand had been disturbed. It was lying about in curious angles. She stopped; the sand had formed a picture. Whose picture—probably it was intended for herself.

The boy’s face met hers, possibly at an opposite door.

“My son, what have you been doing with the sand?”

“Painting, mother.”

“But what led you to paint in that way?”

“Faith’s pictures on the wall. I had to paint. I must. I will be a painter if I grow up. The things that father does will not live unless they are painted. Pictures make the past now—they hold the past; they make it live.”

“My little boy sees the value of the art like a philosopher. You and Faith have a gift that I little expected. I have nursed that little head of yours many an hour; there may be pictures in it—who knows?”

“But father thinks that painting is girlish. How can I get him to let me paint?”