ere routed and the soul of the man
exulted with the sureness and freedom of his hand. He asked her, once,
when they had finished for the day, how it was that she knew so well how
the work was progressing, when she could not see the picture.

She laughed merrily. "But I can see _you_; and I"--she hesitated with that
trick, that he was learning to know so well, of searching for a word--"I
just _feel_ what you are feeling. I suppose it's because my music is that
way. Sometimes, it simply won't come right, at all, and I feel as though I
never _could_ do it. Then, again, it seems to do itself; and I listen and
wonder--just as if I had nothing to do with it."

So that day came when the artist, drawing slowly back from his easel,
stood so long gazing at his picture without touching it that the girl
called to him, "What's the matter? Won't it come right?"

Slowly he laid aside his palette and brushes. Standing at the open window,
he looked at her--smiling but silent--as she held the pose.

For an instant, she did not understand. "Am I not right?" she asked
anxiously. Then, before he could answer--"Oh, have you finished? Is it all
done?"

Still smiling, he answered almost sadly, "I have done all that I can do.
Come."

A moment later, she stood in the studio door.

Seeing her hesitate, he said again, "Come."

"I--I am afraid to look," she faltered.

He laughed. "Really I don't think it's quite so bad as that."

"Oh, but I don't mean that I'm afraid it's bad--it isn't."

The painter watched her,--a queer expression on his face,--as he returned
curiously, "And how, pray tell, do you know it isn't bad--when you have
never seen it? It's quite the thing, I'll admit, for critics to praise or
condemn without much knowledge of the work; but I didn't expect you to be
so modern."

"You are making fun of me," she laughed. "But I don't care. I know your
work is good, because I know how and why you did it. You painted it just
as you painted the spring glade, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said soberly, "I did. But why are you afraid?"

"Why, that's the reason. I--I'm afraid to see myself as you see me."

The man's voice was gentle with feeling as he answered seriously, "Miss
Andres, you, of all the people I have ever known, have the least cause to
fear to look at your portrait for _that_ reason. Come."

Slowly, she went forward to stand by his side before the picture.

For some time, she looked at the beautiful work into which Aar