lish language could only supply the one
word "grey" to describe things that were so totally dissimilar.

"They're like eyes with little fires behind them," Magda told herself.
Then smiled at their owner radiantly.

"Are you the Fairy Queen?" he repeated gravely.

She regarded him with increasing approval.

"Yes," she assented graciously. "These are my woods."

"Then I'm afraid I've been trespassing in your majesty's domain,"
admitted the grey-eyed man. "But your woods are so beautiful I simply
had to try and make a sketch of them."

Magda came back to earth with promptitude.

"Oh, are you an artist?" she demanded eagerly.

He nodded, smiling.

"I'm trying to be."

"Let me look." She flashed past him and planted herself in front of the
easel.

"_Mais, c'est bon!_" she commented coolly. "Me, I know. We have good
pictures at home. This is a good picture."

The man with the grey eyes looked suitably impressed.

"I'm glad you find it so," he replied meekly. "I think it wants just one
thing more. If"--he spoke abstractly--"if the Fairy Queen were resting
just there"--his finger indicated the exact point on the canvas--"tired,
you know, because she had been dancing to one of the Mortals--lucky
beggar, wasn't he?--why, I think the picture would be complete."

Magda shot him a swift glance of comprehension. Then, without a word,
she moved towards the bole of a tree and flung herself down with all the
supple grace of a young faun. The artist snatched up his palette; the
pose she had assumed without a hint from him was inimitable--the slender
limbs relaxed and drooping exactly as though from sheer fatigue. He
painted furiously, blocking in the limp little figure with swift, sure
strokes of his brush.

When at last he desisted he flung a question at her.

"Who taught you to pose--and to dance like that, you wonder-child?"

Magda surveyed him with that mixture of saint and devil in her long,
suddenly narrow eyes which, when she grew to womanhood, was the measure
of her charm and the curse of her tempestuous life.

"_Le bon dieu_," she responded demurely.

The man smiled and shook his head. It was a crooked little smile, oddly
humorous and attractive.

"No," he said with conviction. "No. I don't think so."

The daylight was beginning to fade, and he started to pack up his
belongings.

"What's your name?" asked Magda suddenly.

"Michael."

She looked at him with sudden awe.

"Not--not _Saint Michel_?"