He promptly turned once more to his picture.
Soon, she came back, and seated herself beside her creel and rod, where she could see the picture under the artist's brush. "Does it bother, if I watch?" she asked softly.
"No, indeed," he answered. "It helps--that is, it helps when it is you who watch." Which--to the painter's secret amazement--was a literal truth. The gray rock with the splash of sunshine that would not come right, ceased to trouble him, now. Stimulated by her presence, he worked with a freedom and a sureness that was a delight.
When he could not refrain from looking in her direction, he saw that she was bending, with busy hands, over some willow twigs in her lap. "What in the world are you doing?" he asked curiously.
"You are not supposed to know that I am doing anything," she retorted. "You have been peeking again."
"You were so still--I feared you had vanished," he laughed. "If you'll keep talking to me, I'll know you are there, and will be good."
"Sure it won't bother?"
"Sure," he answered.
"Well, then, you talk to me, and I'll answer."
"I have a confession to make," he said, carefully studying the gray tones of the alder trunk beyond the gray boulder.