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