For a space on the gate side of the spring, the sod was firm and smooth—­with a gray granite boulder in the center of the little glade, and, here and there, wild rose-bushes and the slender, gray trunks of alder trees breaking through.  From the higher branches of the alders that shut out the sky with their dainty, silvery-green leaves, hung—­with many a graceful loop and knot—­ropes of wild grape-vine and curtains of virgin’s-bower.  Along the bank below the old fence, the wild blackberries disputed possession with the roses; while the little stream was mottled with the tender green of watercress and bordered with moss and fragrant mint.  Above the arroyo willows, on the farther side of the glade, Oak Knoll, with bits of the pine-clad Galenas, could be glimpsed; but on the orchard side, the vine-dressed bank with the old gate under the mistletoe oak shut out the view.  Through the screen of alder and grape and willow and virgin’s-bower the sunlight fell, as through the delicate traceries of a cathedral window.  The bright waters of the spring, softly held by the green sod, crept away under the living wall, without a sound; but the deep murmur of the distant, larger stream, reached the place like the low tones of some great organ.  A few regularly placed stones, where once had stood the family spring-house; with the names, initials, hearts and dates carved upon the smooth bark of the alders—­now grown over and almost obliterated—­seemed to fill the spot with ghostly memories.

All that afternoon, the artist remained in the little retreat.  The next day, equipped with easel, canvas and paint-box, he went again to the glade—­determined to make a picture of the charming scene.

For a month, now, uninterrupted by the distractions of social obligations or the like, Aaron King had been subjected to influences that had aroused the creative passion of his artist soul to its highest pitch.  With his genius clamoring for expression, he had denied himself the medium that was his natural language.  Forbidding his friend to accompany him, he worked now in the spring glade with a delight—­with an ecstasy—­that he had seldom, before, felt.  And Conrad Lagrange, wisely, was content to let him go uninterrupted.

As the hours of each day passed, the artist became more and more engrossed with his art.  His spirit sang with the joy of receiving the loveliness of the scene before him, of making it his own, and of giving it forth again—­a literal part of himself.  The memories suggested by the stones of the spring-house foundation and the old carvings on the trees; the sunlight, falling so softly into the hushed seclusion of the glade, as through the traceried windows of a church; and the deep organ-tones of the distant creek; all served to give to the spot the religious atmosphere of a sanctuary; while the artist’s abandonment in his work was little short of devotion.

It was the third afternoon, when the painter became conscious that he had been hearing for some time—­he could not have said how long—­a low-sung melody—­so blending with the organ-tones of the mountain stream that it seemed to come out of the music of the tumbling waters.