"But I'm used to tearing up things when they displease me!" persisted Helen stubbornly.
"At least, wait!" remonstrated Phil. "It is wonderful of Henriette."
"And of you, cousin!" said Henriette.
Phil took the picture from Helen's hands, which now released it in the relaxation of philosophical disinterestedness. What he saw was a man in love with a woman at an easel, and the man was himself. The truth hit him fairly between the eyes.
"Sometimes I don't know what comes out in my own pictures till I look at them a second time—and this is not so bad for me. Have it if you want it," Helen added, as she bent to pick up her drawing materials, "and I'll go and wash my smudgy hands." Rather hurriedly, as if some one or something were pursuing her, she went toward the house.
In a quandary Phil watched her out of sight. When he turned again to Henriette her back was toward him and she was taking her canvas off the easel. How like was her figure to the one which had disappeared under the trees!
"Helen has a distinct gift, hasn't she?" Henriette remarked.
"Yes, and a distinct character," Phil replied thoughtfully.
"A touch of melancholy. Even mother and I never know what she will do next."
He folded the easel and took it under one arm, carrying Helen's charcoal under the other, while Henriette carried the portrait, and they started slowly back to the house.