"Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought."
"I suppose he's contemplating his boots," said Wynnie, with apparent maliciousness.
"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed.
"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise discrimination," said Wynnie.
"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and head, to be able to paint good pictures."
"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing."
"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked.
"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff."
"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you."
"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us."