Then he saw her. Dressed in soft brown that blended subtly with the green
of the willows, the gray of the alder trunks, the russet of rose and
blackberry-bush, and the umber of the swinging grape-vines--in the
flickering sunshine, the soft changing half-lights, and deep shadows--she
appeared to grow out of the scene itself; even as her low-sung melody grew
out of the organ-sound of the waters.
To get the effect that satisfied him best, the painter had placed his
easel a little back from the grassy, open spot. Seated as he was, on a low
camp-stool, among the bushes, he would not have been easily observed--even
by eyes trained to the quickness of vision that belongs to those reared in
the woods and hills. As the girl drew closer, he saw that she carried a
basket on her arm, and that she was picking the wild blackberries that
grew in such luscious profusion in the rich, well watered ground at the
foot of the sheltering bank. Unconscious of any listener, as she gathered
the fruit of Nature's offering, she sang to the accompaniment of Nature's
music, with the artless freedom of a wild thing unafraid in its native
haunts.
The man kept very still. Presently, when the girl had moved so that he
could not see her, he turned to his canvas as if, again, absorbed in his
work--but hearing still, behind him, the low-voiced melody of her song.
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