Isabelle sighed and looked out of her window. The still gardens were quiet except for an owl hooting far off in the night. There was nobody around except for a small boy. She had been watching him for the past hour, for her envy was too great to let her look away. The boy was small and skinny with a mop of black hair and sparkling beige eyes. But the thing about him she wanted most was the white paint box he held in his left hand. In the other, he held a brush, and he was gently dabbing pink paint onto his paper.

How she wished that she could paint! But Isabelle’s father, a famous lord, would never let her use let alone touch a paint set. With every second, her envy of the boy grew. Finally, she could resist it no longer.

“Hey,” she shouted over to him, and her voice rang in the silence. “What are you painting?” Her words echoed off the walls of the courtyard. The boy pointed toward the setting sun, and she nodded her understanding.

“Do you paint?” he asked her, looking up from his art.

“I wish I did,” she mumbled, and reaching out to the windows, she shut them. She changed into her gown and lay in bed.

An hour later, curiosity overcame her, and she opened her windows to see if the boy she envied had left. True, he was gone. The courtyard felt empty without his presence. As she reached out to close the window again, she noticed something on the windowsill. Picking it up, she saw that it was a paint box and brush and beneath it a sheet of paper. On top of the gift was a note that said, “Use it well.”

She whispered a silent “thank-you,” hoping the wind carried it to the boy who had come into the garden with a paint set under his arm and left without it. Smiling, she lifted the brush to the paints and then to the paper. She could final follow her dream.