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mountains, than as a maiden of flesh and blood. The manner of her coming, too, heightened the impression. He had heard no sound of her approach--no step, no rustle of the underbrush. He had seen no movement among the bushes--no parting of the willows in the wall of green. There had been no hint of her nearness. He could not even guess the direction from which she had come. At first, he could scarce believe his eyes, and sat motionless in his surprise. Then her merry laugh rang out--breaking the spell. Springing from his seat, he went forward. "Are you a spirit?" he cried. "You must be something unreal, you know--the way you appear and disappear. The last time, you came out of the music of the waters, and went again the same way. To-day, you come out of the air, or the trees, or, perhaps, that gray boulder that is giving me such trouble." Laughing, she answered, "My father and Brian Oakley taught me. If you will watch the wild things in the woods, you can learn to do it too. I am no more a spirit than the cougar, when it stalks a rabbit in the chaparral; or a mink, as it slips among the rocks along the creek; or a fawn, when it crouches to hide in the underbrush." "You have been fishing?" he asked. She laughed mockingly, "You are _so_ observing! I think you might have taken _that_ for granted, and asked what luck." "I believe I might almost take that for granted too," he returned. "I took a few," she said carelessly. Then, with a charming air of authority--"And now, you must go back to your work. I shall vanish instantly, if you waste another moment's time because I am here." "But I want to talk," he protested. "I have been working hard since noon." "Of course you have," she retorted. "But presently the light will change again, and you won't be able to do any more to-day; so you must keep busy while you can." "And you won't vanish--if I go on with my work?" he asked doubtfully. She was smiling at him with such a mischievous air, that he feared, if he turned away, she would disappear. She laughed aloud; "Not if you work," she said. "But if you stop--I'm gone." As she spoke, she went toward his easel, and, resting her fly rod carefully against the trunk of a near-by alder, slipped the creel from her shoulder, placing the basket on the ground with her hat. Then, while the painter watched her, she stood silently looking at the picture. Presently, she faced him, and, with an impulsive stamp of her fo
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