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Updated: May 12, 2025
'Now paint your picture, says the Master; 'paint swiftly, with such skill as you can, not knowing how long is allotted for the task. And so we weave, and so we paint, every one of us every one of us." "What is your picture, Miss Fregelius? Tell me, if you will." She laughed, and drew herself up. "Mine, oh! it is large. It is to reign like that star.
Fregelius admitted when the monument arrived. It was a lovely thing, executed by one of the first sculptors of the day, in white marble upon a black stone bed, and represented the mortal shape of Stella.
"Fregelius the Reverend Peter Fregelius." "What an exceedingly odd name! Is he an Englishman?" "Yes; but I think that his father was a Dane, and he married a Danish lady." "Indeed! Is she living?" "Oh, no. She died a great many years ago. The old gentleman has only one child left a girl."
"Neither do I; but I don't believe in chance. Everything has its meaning and purpose." "Only one so seldom finds it out. Life is too short, I suppose," replied Morris. By now the sail was up, the boat was drawing ahead, and he was seated at her side holding the tiller. "Why did you go down into the saloon, Miss Fregelius?" he asked presently.
Fregelius was much better, although the nature of his injuries made it imperative that he should still stay in bed. "Is that you, Stella?" he said, in his high, nervous voice, and, although she could not see them in the shadow of the curtain, she knew that his quick eyes were watching her face eagerly. "Yes, father, I have brought you your tea. Are you ready for it?" "Thank you, my dear.
Fregelius a scholar acquainted with the original tongues in which they were written, these companions fell back upon other matters. But all of them had to do with Stella. One night the clergyman read some letters written by her as a child from Denmark. On another he produced certain dolls which she had dressed at the same period of her life in the costume of the peasants of that country.
Fregelius had said, the history was a history of thoughts and theories, rather than of facts, but notwithstanding this, perhaps on account of it, indeed, it was certainly a work which would have struck the severest and least interested critic as very remarkable. The prevailing note was that of vividness.
It was Morris's habit, whenever he could secure an evening to himself, which was not very often, to walk to the Rectory and smoke his pipe in the company of Mr. Fregelius.
It was the only letter that he ever received from her. That afternoon, December 23, Mr. Fregelius and his daughter moved to the Rectory in a fly that had been especially prepared to convey the invalid without shaking him.
Fregelius, her father, possessed, taken when she was about twenty; another, a coloured drawing made by Morris who was rather clever at catching likenesses of her as she appeared singing in the chapel on the night when she had drawn the page-boy, Thomas, from his slumbers; and the third, also a photograph, taken by some local amateur, of her and Morris standing together on the beach and engaged evidently in eager discussion.
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