With me——"
"Where shall we go?"
"To Sankaty——"
She loved the walk to the lighthouse. In the spring there was Scotch broom on the bluffs—yellow as gold, with the blue beyond. In summer
wild roses, deep pink, scenting the air with their fresh fragrance. But, perhaps, she loved it best on a day like this, with the breakers on the beach below, racing in like white horses, and with the winter gulls, dark against the brightness of the morning.
"Why aren't you painting?" she asked Archibald.
"Because," he said, "I am not going to paint the moor any more. It gets away from me—it is too vast—— It has a primal human quality, and yet it is not alive."
"It sometimes seems alive to me," she said, "when I look off over it—it seems to rise and fall as if it—breathed."
"That's the uncanny part of it," Archibald agreed, "and I am going to give it up. I am not going to paint it—— I want to paint you, Becky."
"Me? Why do you want to do that?"