"I took a few," she said carelessly. Then, with a charming air of authority--"And now, you must go back to your work. I shall vanish instantly, if you waste another moment's time because I am here."
"But I want to talk," he protested. "I have been working hard since noon."
"Of course you have," she retorted. "But presently the light will change again, and you won't be able to do any more to-day; so you must keep busy while you can."
"And you won't vanish--if I go on with my work?" he asked doubtfully. She was smiling at him with such a mischievous air, that he feared, if he turned away, she would disappear.
She laughed aloud; "Not if you work," she said. "But if you stop--I'm gone."
As she spoke, she went toward his easel, and, resting her fly rod carefully against the trunk of a near-by alder, slipped the creel from her shoulder, placing the basket on the ground with her hat. Then, while the painter watched her, she stood silently looking at the picture. Presently, she faced him, and, with an impulsive stamp of her foot, said, "Why don't you work? How can you waste your time and this light, looking at me? I shall go, if you don't come back to your picture, this minute."
With a laugh, he obeyed.
For a moment, she watched him; then turned away; and he heard her moving about, down by the tiny stream, where it disappeared under the willows.
Once, he paused and turned to look in her direction "What are you up to, now?" he said.
"I shall be up to leaving you,"--she retorted,--"if you look around, again."