Watching her face,—­that betrayed her every passing thought and emotion as an untroubled pool mirrors the flowers that grow on its banks or the song-bird that pauses to drink,—­the artist—­to change her mood—­said, “You love the mountains, don’t you?”

She turned her face toward him, again, as she answered simply, “Yes, I love the mountains.”

“If you were a painter,”—­he smiled,—­“you would paint them, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know that I would,”—­she answered thoughtfully,—­“but I would try to get the mountains into my picture, whatever it was.  I wonder if you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I think I know what you mean; and it is a beautiful thought.  You wouldn’t paint portraits, would you?”

“I don’t think I could,” she answered.  “It seems to me it would be so hard to get the mountains into a portrait of just anybody.  An artist—­a great artist, I mean—­must make his picture right, mustn’t he?  And if his picture was a portrait of some one who wasn’t very good, and he made it right; he wouldn’t be liked very well, would he?  No, I don’t think I would paint portraits—­unless I could paint just the people who would want me to make my picture right.”

Aaron King’s face flushed at the words that were spoken so artlessly; and he looked at her keenly.  But the girl was wholly innocent of any purpose other than to express her thoughts.  She did not dream of the force with which her simple words had gone home.

“You love the mountains, too, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes,” he answered, “I love the mountains.  I am learning to love them more and more.  But I fear I don’t know them as well as you do.”

“I was born up here,” she said, “and lived here until a few years ago.  I think, sometimes, that the mountains almost talk to me.”

“I wonder if you would help me to know the mountains as you know them,” he asked eagerly.

She drew a little back from him, but did not answer.

“We are neighbors, you see,” he continued smiling.  “I heard your violin, the other evening, when I was fishing up the creek, near where you live; and so I know it is you who live next door to us in the orange grove.  Mr. Lagrange and I are camped just over there back of the orchard.  May we not be friends?  Won’t you help me to know your mountains?”

“I know about you,” she said.  “Brian Oakley told us that you and Mr. Lagrange were camped down here.  Mr. Lagrange said that you are a good man; Brian Oakley says that you are too—­are you?”

The artist flushed.  In his embarrassment, he did not note the significance of her reference to the novelist.  “At least,” he said gently, “I am not a very bad man.”

A smile broke over her face—­her mood changing as quickly as the sunlight breaks through a cloud.  “I know you are not”—­she said—­“a bad man wouldn’t have wanted to paint this place as you have painted it.”