We found many other things to talk about, for I searched every crook and cranny of my old brain for bits of any sort with which to interest her.  The last turn in the path leading back to the house found us friendly and with a taste or two in common.

Once, seeing something near by she wanted to sketch, she whispered to me as familiarly as if I were the same age, “For the love of Mike! hold my hat while I put that on paper.”

I had no acquaintance with “Mike” and she was bareheaded, but so infectious was her eagerness that I felt about twenty.

What she wanted to sketch was only a small girl in a gay kimono and a big red umbrella, but the tiny mite made a vivid spot of color as she stood motionless to watch a great brown moth hovering over a bed of iris.  Before I could explain that the child was a waif temporarily housed with me, shy and easily frightened, Zura whipped from somewhere out of the mysteries of a tight dress a pad and pencil and, with something like magic, the lines of the little maid’s figure and face were transferred to the white sheet.

“How Daddy would have loved her,” said Zura, softly, as she covered her work.  I was silent.

Later my guest and I went into the house and I showed her my treasures.  They were few, but precious in their way:  Some rare old prints, a piece of ivory, and an old jewelry box of gold lacquer, all from grateful pupils.  Zura’s appreciation of the artistic side of her mother’s country was keen.  In connection with it she spoke of her father’s great gift and how he had begun teaching her to paint when he had to tie her to a chair to steady her and almost before her hand was big enough to hold a brush.  She referred to their close companionship.  Mother wanted to rest very often and seldom joined them.  Father and daughter would prepare their own lunch and go for a long day’s tramping and sketching.  Once they were gone for a week and slept out under the trees.  Daddy was the jolliest chum and always let her do as she pleased.  He trusted her and never had corrected her.  Her voice was low and sweet as she dwelt upon the memories of her father, and when I saw her round white throat contract with the effort for control, I found something else to talk about.

Altogether it was a smooth day and to me a very happy one.  Jane had been absent since noon.  Her occupations were unquestioned, but when she joined us at the evening dinner it was good to see how her tired face brightened at Zura’s girlish way of telling things.

Our guest thanked Jane for the cakes.  Said she simply adored bear and tiger cookies, and as for gingerbread Johnnies she couldn’t live without them.  “It was so good of you to think of me,” she told Jane.

“Not at all,” replied Miss Gray.  “I was as glad to make them as I am to have you with us.  Two lone women in one house are bound to get stale.  We need young sweet things about to keep us enthusiastic and poetical.”