nto a studio, and I heard who you
both were, I came because I love to watch him; as I try to make the music
I think he would love to hear."

The novelist studied her intently. She was so artless--so unaffected by
the conventions of the world--in a word, so natural in expressing her
thoughts, that the man who had given the best years of his life to feed
the vicious, grossly sensual and bestial imaginations of his readers was
deeply moved. He was puzzled what to say. At last, he murmured haltingly,
"You like the artist, then?"

Her eyes were full of curious laughter as she answered, "Why, what a funny
question--when I have never even talked with him. How _could_ I like any
one I have never known?"

"But you make your music for him; and you come here to watch him?"

"Oh, but that is for the work he is doing; that is for his pictures." She
turned to look through the tiny opening in the arbor. "How I wish I could
see inside that beautiful room. I know it must be beautiful. Once, when
you were all gone, I tried to steal in; but, of course, he keeps it
locked."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said the man, suddenly--prompted by her
confession to resume his playful mood.

"What?" she asked eagerly, in a like spirit of fun.

"First," he answered, half teasingly, "I must know if you could, now, make
your music for me as well as for him."

"For the you that loves the mountains and the garden I'm sure I could,"
she answered promptly.

"Well then, if you will promise to do that--if you will promise not to
play _yourself_ for just him alone but for me too--I'll fix it so that you
can go into the studio yonder."

"Oh, I will always play for you, too, anyway--now that I know you."

"Of course," he said, "we could just walk up to the door, and I could
introduce you; but that would not be proper for _us_ would it?"

She shook her head positively, "I wouldn't like to do that. He would think
I was intruding, I am sure."

"Well then, we will do it this way--the first day that Mr. King and I are
both away, and Tee Kee is gone, too; I'll slip out here and leave a letter
and a key on your gate. The letter will tell you just the time when we go,
and when we will return--so you will know whether it is safe for you or
not, and how long you can stay. Only"--he became very serious--"only, you
must promise one thing."

"What?"

"That you won't look at the picture on the easel."

"But why must I promise that?"

"Because that pic