bsorbed in his
work--but hearing still, behind him, the low-voiced melody of her song.

Then the music ceased; not abruptly, but dying away softly--losing itself,
again, in the organ-tones of the distant waters, as it had come. For a
while, the artist worked on; not daring to take his eyes from his picture;
but feeling, in every tingling nerve of him, that she was there. At last,
as if compelled, he abruptly turned his head--and looked straight into her
face.

The man had been, apparently, so absorbed in his work, when first the girl
caught sight of him, that she had scarcely been startled. When she had
ceased her song, and he, still, had not looked around; drawn by her
interest in the picture, she had softly approached until she was standing
quite close. Her lips were slightly parted, her face was flushed, and her
eyes were shining with delight and excited pleasure, as she stood leaning
forward, her basket on her arm. So interested was she in the painting,
that she seemed to have quite forgotten the painter, and was not in the
least embarrassed when he so suddenly looked directly into her face.

"It is beautiful," she said, as though in answer to his question. And no
one--hearing her, and watching her face as she spoke--could have doubted
her sincerity. "It is so true, so--so"--she searched for a word, and
smiled in triumph when she found it--"so _right_--so beautifully right.
It--it makes me feel as--as I feel when I am at church--and the organ
plays soft and low, and the light comes slanting through the window, and
some one reads those beautiful words, 'The Lord is in his holy temple; let
all the earth keep silence before him'."

"Why!" exclaimed the artist, "that is exactly what I wanted it to say.
When I saw this place, and heard the waters over there, like a great
organ; and saw how the sunshine falls through the trees; I felt as you
say, and I am trying to paint the picture so that those who see it will
feel that way too."

Her face was aglow with enthusiastic understanding as she cried eagerly,
"Oh, I know! I know! I'm like that with my music! When I look at the
mountains sometimes--or at the trees and flowers, or hear the waters sing,
or the winds call--I--I get so full and so--so kind of choked up inside
that it hurts; and I feel as though I must try to tell it--and then I take
my violin and try and try to make the music say what I feel. I never can
though--not altogether. But _you_ have made your picture