"
It did not occur to her to ask when he had heard her music. It did not
occur to him to explain. They, neither of them, thought to remember that
they had not been introduced. They really should have pretended that they
did not know each other.
"Sometimes," she continued with winsome confidence, "I think, myself, that
I am really a great violinist--and then, again,"--she added wistfully,--"I
know that I am not. But I am sure that I wouldn't like to be famous, at
all."
He laughed. "Fame doesn't seem to matter so much, does it; when one is up
here in the hills and the canyon gates are closed."
She echoed his laughter with quick delight. "Did you see that? Did you see
those great doors open to let you in, and then close again behind you as
if to shut the world outside? But of course you would. Any one who could
do that"--she pointed to the canvas--"would not fail to see the canyon
gates." With her eyes again upon the picture, she seemed once more to
forget the presence of the painter.
Watching her face,--that betrayed her every passing thought and emotion as
an untroubled pool mirrors the flowers that grow on its banks or the
song-bird that pauses to drink,--the artist--to change her mood--said,
"You _love_ the mountains, don't you?"
She turned her face toward him, again, as she answered simply, "Yes, I
love the mountains.
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