"Why, that's what I am trying so hard to make you keep your eyes on your work for--because _I_ have to make a confession to _you_."
"To me?"
"Yes--don't look around, please."
"But what under the sun can you have to confess to me?"
"You started yours first," she answered. "Go on. Maybe it will make it easier for me."
Studiously keeping his eyes upon his canvas, he told her how he had watched her from the cedar thicket. When he had finished,--and she was silent,--he thought that she was angry, and turned about--expecting to see her gathering up her things to go.
She was struggling to suppress her laughter. At the look of surprise on his face, she burst forth in such a gale of merriment that the little glade was filled with the music of her glee; while, in spite of himself, the painter joined.
"Oh!" she cried, "but that _is_ funny! I am glad, glad!"
"Now, what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Why--why--that's exactly what I was trying to get courage enough to confess to you!" she gasped. And then she told him how she had spied upon him from the arbor in the rose garden; and how, in his absence, she had visited his studio.
"But how in the world did you get in? The place was always locked, when I was away."
"Oh," she said quaintly, "there was a good genie who let me in through the keyhole. I didn't meddle with anything, you know--I just looked at the beautiful room where you work. And I didn't glance, even, at the picture on the easel. The genie told me you wouldn't like that. I would not have drawn the curtain anyway, even if I hadn't been told. At least, I don't _think_ I would--but perhaps I might--I can't always tell what I'm going to do, you know."
Suddenly, the artist remembered finding the studio door open with Conrad Lagrange's key in the lock, and how the novelist had berated himself with such exaggerated vehemence; and, in a flash, came the thought of James Rutlidge's visit, that afternoon, and of his strange manner and insinuating remarks.
"I think I know the name of your good genie," said the painter, facing the girl, seriously. "But tell me, did no one disturb you while you were in the studio?"
Her cheeks colored painfully, and all the laughter was gone from her voice as she replied, "I didn't want you to know that part."
"But I must know," he insisted gravely.
"Yes," she said, "Mr. Rutlidge found me there; and I ran away through the garden. I don't like him. He frightens me. Please, is it necessary for us to talk about it any more? I had to make my confession of course, but must we talk about _that_ part?"
"No," he answered, "we need not talk about it. It was necessary for me to know; but we will never mention that part, again. When we are back in the orange groves, you shall come to the rose garden and to the studio, as often as you like; your good genie and I will see to it that you are not disturbed--by any one."
Her face brightened at his words. "And do you really like for me to make music for you--as Mr. Lagrange says you do?"
"I can't begin to tell you how much I like it," he answered smiling.
"And it doesn't bother you in your work?"
"It helps me," he declared--thinking of that portrait of Mrs. Taine.
"Oh, I am glad, glad!" she cried. "I wanted it to help. It was for that I played."
"You played to help me?" he asked wonderingly.
She nodded. "I thought it might--if I could get enough of the mountains into my music, you know."
"And will you dance for me, sometimes too?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I cannot tell about that. You see, I only dance when I must--when the music, somehow, doesn't seem quite enough. When I--when I"--she searched for a word, then finished abruptly--"oh, I can't tell you about it--it's just something you feel--there are no words for it. When I first come to the mountains,--after living in Fairlands all winter,--I always dance--the mountains feel so big and strong. And sometimes I dance in the moonlight--when it feels so soft and light and clean; or in the twilight--when it's so still, and the air is so--so full of the day that has come home to rest and sleep; and sometimes when I am away up under the big pines and the wind, from off the mountain tops, under the sky, sings through the dark branches."
"But don't you ever dance to please your friends?"
"Oh, no--I don't dance to _please_ any one--only just when it's for myself--when nothing else will do--when I _must_. Of course, sometimes, Myra or Brian Oakley or Mrs. Oakley are with me--but they don't matter, you know. They are so much a part of me that I don't mind."
"I wonder if you will ever dance for me?"
Again, she shook her head. "I don't think so. How could I? You see, you are not like anybody that I have ever known."
"But I saw you the other evening, you remember."
"Yes, but I didn't know you were there. If I had known, I wouldn't have danced."
All the while--as she talked--her fingers had been busy with the slender, willow branches. "And now"--she said, abruptly changing the subject, and smiling as she spoke--"and now, you must turn back to your work."
"But the light is not right," he protested.
"Never mind, you must pretend that it is," she retorted. "Can't you pretend?"
To humor her, he obeyed, laughing.
"You may look, now," she said, a minute later.
He turned to see her standing close beside him, holding out a charming little basket that she had woven of the green willows and decorated with moss and watercress. In the basket, on the cool, damp moss, and lightly covered with the cress, lay a half dozen fine rainbow trout.
"How pretty!" he exclaimed. "So that is what you have been doing!"
"They are for you," she said simply.
"For me?" he cried.
She nodded brightly; "For you and Mr. Lagrange. I know you like them because you said you were fishing when you heard my violin. And I thought that you wouldn't want to leave your picture, to fish for yourself, so I took them for you."
The artist concealed his embarrassment with difficulty; and, while expressing his thanks and appreciation in rather formal words, studied her face keenly. But she had tendered her gift with a spontaneous naturalness, an unaffected kindliness, and an innocent disregard of conventionalities, that would have disarmed a man with much less native gentleness than Aaron King.
Leaving the basket of trout in his hand, she turned, and swung the empty creel over her shoulder. Then, putting on her hat, she picked up her rod.
"Oh--are you going?" he said.
"You have finished your work for to-day," she answered
"But let me go with you, a little way."
She shook her head. "No, I don't want you."
"But you will come again?"