"You love the mountains, too, don't you?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes," he answered, "I love the mountains. I am learning to love them more and more. But I fear I don't know them as well as you do."
"I was born up here," she said, "and lived here until a few years ago. I think, sometimes, that the mountains almost talk to me."
"I wonder if you would help me to know the mountains as you know them," he asked eagerly.
She drew a little back from him, but did not answer.
"We are neighbors, you see," he continued smiling. "I heard your violin, the other evening, when I was fishing up the creek, near where you live; and so I know it is you who live next door to us in the orange grove. Mr. Lagrange and I are camped just over there back of the orchard. May we not be friends? Won't you help me to know your mountains?"
"I know about you," she said. "Brian Oakley told us that you and Mr. Lagrange were camped down here. Mr. Lagrange said that you are a good man; Brian Oakley says that you are too--are you?"
The artist flushed. In his embarrassment, he did not note the significance of her reference to the novelist. "At least," he said gently, "I am not a very bad man."
A smile broke over her face--her mood changing as quickly as the sunlight breaks through a cloud. "I know you are not"--she said--"a bad man wouldn't have wanted to paint this place as you have painted it."
She turned to go.