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The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. The ragged patch-work quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. The boy, glad to escape, went out as they entered. Grace sat up. "Now," he said cheerfully, "this is real good of you to come and see me! Take a seat, sir."
Browning has written an enduring charm of picturesqueness, of romance, and of a pure enthusiasm for art. "Art for Art," she cries, "And good for God, himself the essential Good! We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect, Although our woman-hands should shake and fail." This was her achievement her hands did not fail!
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