Then the music ceased; not abruptly, but dying away softly--losing itself,
again, in the organ-tones of the distant waters, as it had come. For a
while, the artist worked on; not daring to take his eyes from his picture;
but feeling, in every tingling nerve of him, that she was there. At last,
as if compelled, he abruptly turned his head--and looked straight into her
face.
The man had been, apparently, so absorbed in his work, when first the girl
caught sight of him, that she had scarcely been startled. When she had
ceased her song, and he, still, had not looked around; drawn by her
interest in the picture, she had softly approached until she was standing
quite close. Her lips were slightly parted, her face was flushed, and her
eyes were shining with delight and excited pleasure, as she stood leaning
forward, her basket on her arm. So interested was she in the painting,
that she seemed to have quite forgotten the painter, and was not in the
least embarrassed when he so suddenly looked directly into her face.
"It is beautiful," she said, as though in answer to his question. And no
one--hearing her, and watching her face as she spoke--could have doubted
her sincerity.
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