nt down
the path, and found himself in a charming nook--shut in on every side by
the forest vegetation that, watered by the spring, grew rank and dense.

For a space on the gate side of the spring, the sod was firm and
smooth--with a gray granite boulder in the center of the little glade,
and, here and there, wild rose-bushes and the slender, gray trunks of
alder trees breaking through. From the higher branches of the alders that
shut out the sky with their dainty, silvery-green leaves, hung--with many
a graceful loop and knot--ropes of wild grape-vine and curtains of
virgin's-bower. Along the bank below the old fence, the wild blackberries
disputed possession with the roses; while the little stream was mottled
with the tender green of watercress and bordered with moss and fragrant
mint. Above the arroyo willows, on the farther side of the glade, Oak
Knoll, with bits of the pine-clad Galenas, could be glimpsed; but on the
orchard side, the vine-dressed bank with the old gate under the mistletoe
oak shut out the view. Through the screen of alder and grape and willow
and virgin's-bower the sunlight fell, as through the delicate traceries of
a cathedral window. The bright waters of the spring, softly held by the
green sod, crept away under the living wall, without a sound; but the deep
murmur of the distant, larger stream, reached the place like the low
tones of some great organ. A few regularly placed stones, where once had
stood the family spring-house; with the names, initials, hearts and dates
carved upon the smooth bark of the alders--now grown over and almost
obliterated--seemed to fill the spot with ghostly memories.

All that afternoon, the artist remained in the little retreat. The next
day, equipped with easel, canvas and paint-box, he went again to the
glade--determined to make a picture of the charming scene.

For a month, now, uninterrupted by the distractions of social obligations
or the like, Aaron King had been subjected to influences that had aroused
the creative passion of his artist soul to its highest pitch. With his
genius clamoring for expression, he had denied himself the medium that was
his natural language. Forbidding his friend to accompany him, he worked
now in the spring glade with a delight--with an ecstasy--that he had
seldom, before, felt. And Conrad Lagrange, wisely, was content to let him
go uninterrupted.

As the hours of each day passed, the artist became more and more engrossed
with h