Leigh turned to see Thaine Aydelot looking down at her as he leaned over the high back of the rustic seat
In a rustic seat overlooking the river and the prairies beyond, Leigh Shirley bent lovingly above a square of heavy white paper on which she was sketching a group of sunflowers glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Leigh’s talent was only an undeveloped inheritance, but if it lacked training it’s fresh originality was unspoiled.
“The top of the afternoon to you.”
Leigh turned to see Thaine Aydelot looking down at her as he leaned over the high back of the rustic seat. He was in his working clothes with his straw hat set back, showing his brown face. His luminous dark eyes were shining and a half-teasing, half-sympathetic smile was on his lips. But whatever the clothes, there was always something of the Southern gentleman about every man of the Thaine blood. Something of the soldierly bearing of his father had been his heritage likewise.
“May I see your stuff, or is it not for the profane eyes of a thresher of alfalfa to look upon?”
Leigh drew back and held up her drawing-board.
“It’s just like you, Leigh. You always were an artist, but when did you learn all the technique? Is that what you call it? How do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” Leigh answered frankly. “It seems to do itself.”