Curtis hurried away to look at the saw-mill. Lawson and Parker went fishing, and Elsie got out her paint-box and started another sketch. The morning was glorious, the air invigorating, and she painted joyously with firm, plashing strokes. Never had she been so sure of her brush. Life and art were very much worth while—only now and then a disturbing wish intruded—it was only a vague and timid longing; but it grew a little in power each time. Once she looked steadily and soberly at the ring whose jewel sparkled like a drop of dew on the third finger of her left hand.
A half-hour later Curtis came back, walking rapidly. Seeing her at work he deflected from the straight trail and drew near.
"I think that is wonderful," he said, as he looked at her sketch. "I don't see how you do so much with so few strokes."
"That always puzzles the layman," she replied. "But it's really very simple."
"When you know how. I hope you're enjoying your trip with us?"
She flashed a smile that was almost coquettish upon him. "It is glorious. I am so happy I'm afraid it won't last."
"We always feel that way about any keen pleasure," he replied, soberly. "Now I can't keep the thought of your going out of my mind. Every hour or two I find myself saying, 'It'll be lonesome business when these artists leave us.'"
"You mustn't speak of anything sorrowful this week. Let's be as happy as we can."
He pondered a fitting reply, but at last gave it up and said: "If you are satisfied with your sketch, we'll start. I see the teams are ready."
"Oh yes, I'm ready to go. I just wanted to make a record of the values—they are changing so fast now," and she began to wipe her brushes and put away her panel. "I don't care where we go so we keep in the pines and have the mountains somewhere in sight."