The eyes of the little shepherdess were fastened upon the picture which the poor painter who had lately come to the village was making at the edge of the forest. Upon a square of canvas no bigger than that he had put everything one could see,—or almost everything. How could he do it? It was wonderful!
He gave the last stroke of the brush, then turned and looked into her face as if he would like to carry it away with him. She was the prettiest and best girl in all the country-side.
“You are beautiful,” he said; “did you know it?”
She laughed gaily as if pleased.
“The fountain told me so,” she said.
“Did it tell you something else?”
“What else?”
“That you please me?”
And he added, softly: “Will you be my wife?”
She turned her face away, trembling with happiness, for she loved him secretly.