"Claire!" Earle looked at her now with his quick, bright glance. "I wonder if I do not know of whom you speak. There can hardly be more than one Claire who is a true artist."
"There may be a hundred, for aught I know," replied Marion, carelessly; "but I mean Claire Alford. Her father was a distinguished artist, I believe. You may have heard of him."
"Everyone has heard of him, I imagine," returned Earle, a little dryly; "but I knew him well in my boyhood, and he did more than any one else to fan whatever artistic flame I possess. I was, therefore, very glad when I chanced to meet his daughter about a month ago."
"You met Claire? That can hardly be! She is abroad."
"I met her a few days before she sailed. The lady with whom she has gone, and with whom she was then staying, is the widow of an artist whom I knew, and is herself a great friend of mine."
"And so you have met Claire! I really don't know why it should surprise me, yet it does. What did you think of her? I ask the question without hesitation, because I know it is impossible for any one to think ill of her, and the well is only in proportion as you know or divine her."
"I am sure of that," said Earle, with a kindly smile for the speaker. "She charmed me at first sight: she is so simple, so candid, so unconscious of herself, so evidently intent upon high aims."
"Yes, she is all of that," replied Marion. Involuntarily her voice fell as she thought of how little any word of this commendation could be applied to herself. "Did you find out that you had something in common beside your love of art?" she asked, after an instant. "Claire is a fervent Catholic."
"Is she?" he said, with interest. "No, I did not discover it. Nothing brought up the subject of religion. But I am not surprised. There is an air about her that made me call her in my own mind a vestal of art. I can easily realize that she is something more and better than that."
"It is a pretty name, and suits her well—a vestal of art," said Marion. She was silent then for a minute or two, and stood looking with level gaze from under the broad brim of her sun-hat at the pastoral meadow-scene, unconscious for once what a picture she herself made, as she leaned on the stone-wall, with a spreading mulberry-tree throwing its chequered shade down upon her graceful figure. Artist instinct drew Earle's eyes upon her, and he was saying to himself, "How much I should like to sketch her! Shall I ask her permission to do so?" when she suddenly turned her face toward him and spoke.