"Why, that's the reason. I--I'm afraid to see myself as you see me."
The man's voice was gentle with feeling as he answered seriously, "Miss Andrés, you, of all the people I have ever known, have the least cause to fear to look at your portrait for that reason. Come."
Slowly, she went forward to stand by his side before the picture.
For some time, she looked at the beautiful work into which Aaron King had put the best of himself and of his genius. At last, turning full upon him, her eyes blue and shining, she said in a low tone, "O Mr. King, it is too--too--beautiful! It is so beautiful it--it--hurts. She seems to, to"--she searched for the word--"to belong to the roses, doesn't she? It makes you feel just as the rose garden makes you feel."
He laughed with pleasure, "What a child of nature you are! You have forgotten that it is a portrait of yourself, haven't you?"
She laughed with him. "I had forgotten. It's so lovely!" Then she added wistfully, "Am I--am I really like that?--just a little?"
"No," he answered. "But that is just a little, a very little, like you."
She looked at him half doubtfully--sincerely unmindful of the compliment, in her consideration of its truth. Shaking her head, with a serious smile, she returned slowly, "I wish that I could be sure you are not mistaken."
"You will permit me to exhibit the picture, will you?" he asked.
"Why, yes! of course! You made it for people to see, didn't you? I don't believe any one could look at it seriously without having good thoughts, could they?"