ot, said, "Why don't
you work? How can you waste your time and this light, looking at me? I
shall go, if you don't come back to your picture, this minute."

With a laugh, he obeyed.

For a moment, she watched him; then turned away; and he heard her moving
about, down by the tiny stream, where it disappeared under the willows.

Once, he paused and turned to look in her direction "What are you up to,
now?" he said.

"I shall be up to leaving you,"--she retorted,--"if you look around,
again."

He promptly turned once more to his picture.

Soon, she came back, and seated herself beside her creel and rod, where
she could see the picture under the artist's brush. "Does it bother, if I
watch?" she asked softly.

"No, indeed," he answered. "It helps--that is, it helps when it is _you_
who watch." Which--to the painter's secret amazement--was a literal truth.
The gray rock with the splash of sunshine that would not come right,
ceased to trouble him, now. Stimulated by her presence, he worked with a
freedom and a sureness that was a delight.

When he could not refrain from looking in her direction, he saw that she
was bending, with busy hands, over some willow twigs in her lap. "What in
the world are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"You are not supposed to know that I am doing anything," she retorted.
"You have been peeking again."

"You were so still--I feared you had vanished," he laughed. "If you'll
keep talking to me, I'll know you are there, and will be good."

"Sure it won't bother?"

"Sure," he answered.

"Well, then, _you_ talk to me, and I'll answer."

"I have a confession to make," he said, carefully studying the gray tones
of the alder trunk beyond the gray boulder.

"A confession?"

"Yes, I want to get it over--so it won't bother me."

"Something about me?"

"Yes."

"Why, that's what I am trying so hard to make you keep your eyes on your
work for--because _I_ have to make a confession to _you_."

"To me?"

"Yes--don't look around, please."

"But what under the sun can you have to confess to me?"

"You started yours first," she answered. "Go on. Maybe it will make it
easier for me."

Studiously keeping his eyes upon his canvas, he told her how he had
watched her from the cedar thicket. When he had finished,--and she was
silent,--he thought that she was angry, and turned about--expecting to see
her gathering up her things to go.

She was struggling to suppress her laughter. At the look