The two stopped in the shade of the willow.  He set up the easel and opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.

“Thank you,” she said to him.  “Did you get through with your work in the field?”

“I was just turning the water on the lucerne.  I got through shocking the wheat some time ago.”

“Is there a good crop!  I don’t know much about such things, but I want to learn.”  She smiled up into his ruddy face.

“The wheat is fine.  The heads are well developed.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre.”

“Fifty bushels?” She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the palette.

Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.

“I thought you finished that picture yesterday,” he said.

“I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another hour on it.  The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I want to put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can.”

The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where he could see her at work.  He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make a beautiful picture out of such a commonplace thing as a saleratus swamp.  But then, he was beginning to think that this girl was capable of endless wonders.  He had met no other girl just like her, so young and so beautiful, and yet so talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet so simple in manner of her life; so high born and bred, and yet so companionable with those of humbler station.

The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red on to her palette.  She gazed for a moment at the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she asked: 

“Do you think I dare put a little more red in my picture?”

“Dare?” he repeated.

The young man followed the pointing finger of the girl into the flaming depths of the sky, then came and leaned carefully over the painting.

“Tell me which is redder, the real or the picture?” she asked.

Dorian looked critically back and forth.  “The sky is redder,” be decided.

“And yet if I make my picture as red as the sky naturally is, many people would say that it is too red to be true.  I’ll risk it anyway.”  Then she carefully laid on a little more color.

“Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more intense than any representation of nature.”

She worked on in silence for a few moments, then without looking from her canvas, she asked:  “Do you like being a farmer?”

“Oh, I guess so,” he replied somewhat indefinitely.  “I’ve lived on a farm all my life, and I don’t know anything else.  I used to think I would like to get away, but mother always wanted to stay.  There’s been a lot of hard work for both of us, but now things are coming more our way, and I like it better.  Anyway, I couldn’t live in the city now.”