“I’d like to see that first little sketch,” she said, when he had finished.  Her eyes were very sweet.

For a second he hesitated.  Then he rose, went into the deserted cabin, and took from the cupboard a dusty bundle of papers—­pieces of white cardboard, sheets of letter-paper, any sort of paper he had been able to lay his hands on.  Riverton and the surrounding country, as Peter Champneys saw it, unrolled before her astonished eyes.  It was roughly done, and there were glaring faults; but there was something in the crude work that wasn’t in the canvas on her easel, and she recognized it.  She singled out several sketches of an old negro with a bald head and a white beard, and a stern, fine face innate with dignity.  She said quietly: 

“You are quite right, Peter:  the Red Admiral is undoubtedly a fairy.”  And after a moment, studying the old man’s face:  “He’s rather a remarkable old man, isn’t he?”

Peter looked around him.  On that terrible night Daddy Neptune had stood just where the easel was standing now; over there by the tumble-down chicken house, Jake had fallen; and the space that was now green with grass had been full of vengeful men, and howling dogs, and trampling horses.  Peter took the sketch from her, looked at it for a long moment, and, as briefly as he could, and keeping himself very much in the background, he told her.

Claribel Spring looked around her, almost disbelieving that such a thing could happen in such a place.  She looked at the quiet-faced boy, at the sketches, and shook her head.

When she was ready to go, Peter helped pack her traps, picked up her paint-box, and slung her folding-easel and camp-stool across his shoulder.  Lynwood was some three miles from the River Swamp, and shall a gentleman allow a lady to lug her belongings that distance?

“Miss Spring,” said Peter, anxiously, as they reached the porch of Lynwood, “Miss Spring, do you expect to go about these woods much—­by yourself?”

“Why, yes!  Nobody here has time to prowl with me, you see.  And I can’t stay indoors.  I’ve got to make the most of these woods while I have the opportunity.”

Peter looked troubled.  His brows puckered.  “I wonder if you’d mind if I just sort of stayed around so I could look after—­I mean, so I could watch you painting?  May I? Please!”

Claribel sensed something tense under that request.  She longed to get at Peter’s thought processes.  She was immensely interested in this shabby little chap who made astonishing sketches and whose personality was so intriguing.

“Why, of course you may, Peter.  But would you mind telling me just why you want to come with me—­aside from the painting?”

Peter shifted from one bare foot to the other.

“Because somebody’s got to go with you,” he blurted flatly.  “Don’t the people here know you mustn’t go off like that, by yourself?  There—­well, Miss Spring, there are bad folks everywhere, I reckon.  Our niggers”—­Peter’s head went up—­“are the best niggers, in the world.  But—­sometimes—­And—­and—­” He looked at her, trying to make her understand.