Bartlett.—"Hay-stacks?"
Constance, desolately.—"Yes, hay-stacks."
Bartlett.—"But hay-stacks at the foot of the mountain, Miss Wyatt"—
Constance, inconsolably.—"They're not at the foot of the mountain. They're those hay-stacks, just out there in the meadow. I thought it would be nice to have them in near that clump of birches you drew."
Bartlett.—"Oh-h-h-h!" He scratches his head in visible stupefaction. Then with reanimation: "I see. It was my error. I was looking for middle distance, and you had been working on the foreground. Very good; very— Oh, gracious powers—No, no! Don't be discouraged, Miss Wyatt; remember it's the first time you've attempted anything of the sort, and you've really done very well. Here!" He seizes the pencil and draws. "We will just sink these hay-stacks,—which are very good in their way, but not perhaps sufficiently subordinated,—just sink them into the lake yonder. They will serve very well for the reflections of those hills beyond, and now you can work away at some of the details of the foreground; they will interest you more." He retires a pace. "It's really not a bad start as it is."
Constance, ruefully.—"But it's all yours, Mr. Bartlett."
Bartlett.—"Eh?"
Constance.—"You drew every line in it."
Bartlett.—"No, you drew the line of the distant hills."