And Conrad Lagrange, wisely, was content to let him
go uninterrupted.
As the hours of each day passed, the artist became more and more engrossed
with his art. His spirit sang with the joy of receiving the loveliness of
the scene before him, of making it his own, and of giving it forth
again--a literal part of himself. The memories suggested by the stones of
the spring-house foundation and the old carvings on the trees; the
sunlight, falling so softly into the hushed seclusion of the glade, as
through the traceried windows of a church; and the deep organ-tones of the
distant creek; all served to give to the spot the religious atmosphere of
a sanctuary; while the artist's abandonment in his work was little short
of devotion.
It was the third afternoon, when the painter became conscious that he had
been hearing for some time--he could not have said how long--a low-sung
melody--so blending with the organ-tones of the mountain stream that it
seemed to come out of the music of the tumbling waters.
With his brush poised between palette and canvas, the artist
paused,--turning his head to listen,--half inclined to the belief that his
fancy was tricking him. But no; the singer was coming nearer; the melody
was growing more distinct; but still the voice was in perfect harmony with
the deep-toned accompaniment of the distant creek.
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