Мхи старої садиби
The Artist of the Beautiful
Atlengthitarosefromthesmallhandoftheinfantwithanairymotionthatseemedtobearitupwardwithoutaneffort,asiftheetherealinstinctswithwhichitsmaster’sspirithadendoweditimpelledthisfairvisioninvoluntarilytoahighersphere.Hadtherebeennoobstruction,itmighthavesoaredintotheskyandgrownimmortal.Butitslustregleamedupontheceiling;theexquisitetextureofitswingsbrushedagainstthatearthlymedium;andasparkleortwo,asofstardust,floateddownwardandlayglimmeringonthecarpet.Thenthebutterflycameflutteringdown,and,insteadofreturningtotheinfant,wasapparentlyattractedtowardstheartist’shand.
"Notso!notso!"murmuredOwenWarland,asifhishandiworkcouldhaveunderstoodhim."Thouhasgoneforthoutofthymaster’sheart.Thereisnoreturnforthee."
Withawaveringmovement,andemittingatremulousradiance,thebutterflystruggled,asitwere,towardstheinfant,andwasabouttoalightuponhisfinger;butwhileitstillhoveredintheair,thelittlechildofstrength,withhisgrandsire’ssharpandshrewdexpressioninhisface,madeasnatchatthemarvellousinsectandcompresseditinhishand.Anniescreamed.OldPeterHovendenburstintoacoldandscornfullaugh.Theblacksmith,bymainforce,unclosedtheinfant’shand,andfoundwithinthepalmasmallheapofglitteringfragments,whencethemysteryofbeautyhadfledforever.AndasforOwenWarland,helookedplacidlyatwhatseemedtheruinofhislife’slabor,andwhichwasyetnoruin.Hehadcaughtafarotherbutterflythanthis
