'
'From the moment when I left my mother in the grave,' said
Wilderspin, 'I had but one hope, that she who was watching my
endeavours might not watch in vain. Art became now my religion:
success in it my soul's goal. I went to London; I soon began to
develop a great power of design, in illustrating penny periodicals.
For years I worked at this, improving in execution with every design,
but still unable to find an opening for a better class of work. What
I yearned for was the opportunity to exercise the gift of colour.
That I did possess this in a rare degree I knew. At last I got a
commission. Oh! the joy of painting that first picture! My progress
was now rapid. But I had few purchasers till Providence sent me a
good man and great gentleman, my dear friend--'
'This is a long-winded speech of yours, _mon cher_,' yawned Cyril.
'Lady Sinfi is going to strike up with the Welsh riddle unless you
get along faster.'
'Don't stop him,' I heard Sinfi mutter, as she shook Cyril angrily;
'he's mighty fond o' that mother o' his'n, an', if he's ever sich a
horn nataral, I likes him.
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