He fell into pleasant dreams.  He was going to take her down south with him; he wanted her to see that little brown house in South Carolina, to know the tide-water gurgling in the Riverton coves, and mocking-birds singing to the moonlit night, and the voice of the whippoorwill out of the thickets.  She must know the marshes, and the live-oaks hung with moss.  All the haunts of his childhood she should know, and old Emma Campbell would sit and talk to her about his mother.  They would stay in the little house hallowed by his mother’s mild spirit.  And he would show her that first sketch of the Red Admiral.  And afterward they two would plan how to make the best use of the Champneys money.  He was very, very sure of her sympathy and her understanding.  Why, you couldn’t look into her eyes without knowing how exquisite her sympathy would be!

He was so stirred, so thrilled, that the creative power that had seemed to fail him, that had left him so emptily alone these many bitter months, came to him with a rush.  He got to his feet and went tramping up and down the strip of shore, his eyes clouded with visions.  Before his mind’s eye the picture he meant to paint took shape and form and color.  And as he walked home he whistled like a happy boy.

He had brought his materials along with him as a matter of habit.  With his powers at high tide, in the first glamour of a great passion, he set himself to work next morning to portray her as his heart knew her.

He worked steadily, stopping only when the light failed.  He was so absorbed in his task that he forgot his body.  But Grandma Baker was a wise old woman, and she came at intervals and forced food upon him.  Then he slept, and awoke with the light to rush back to his work.  His old rare gift of visualizing a face in its absence had grown with the years; and this was the face of all faces.  There was not a shade or a line of that face he didn’t know.  And after a while she appeared upon his canvas, breathing, immensely alive, with the inmost spirit of her informing her gray-green eyes, her virginal mouth, her candid and thoughtful brow.  There she stood, Anne as Peter Champneys knew and loved her.

He had done great work in his time.  But this was painted with the blood of his heart.  This was his high-water mark.  It would take its place with those immortal canvases that are the slow accretions of the ages, the perfectest flowerings of genius.  He was swaying on his feet when he painted in the Red Admiral.  Then he flung himself upon his bed and slept like a dead man.

When he awoke, she seemed to be a living presence in his room.  He gasped, and sat with his hands between his knees, staring at her almost unbelievingly.  He looked at the Red Admiral above his signature, and fetched a great, sighing breath.

“We’ve done it at last, by God!” said he, soberly.  “Fairy, we’ve reached the heights!”

But when he appeared at the breakfast-table Grandma Baker regarded him with deep concern.