"
"If you were a painter,"--he smiled,--"you would paint them, wouldn't
you?"
"I don't know that I would,"--she answered thoughtfully,--"but I would try
to get the mountains into my picture, whatever it was. I wonder if you
know what I mean?"
"Yes," he answered, "I think I know what you mean; and it is a beautiful
thought. You wouldn't paint portraits, would you?"
"I don't think I _could_," she answered. "It seems to me it would be so
hard to get the mountains into a portrait of just anybody. An artist--a
great artist, I mean--must make his picture right, mustn't he? And if his
picture was a portrait of some one who wasn't very good, and he made it
right; he wouldn't be liked very well, would he? No, I don't think I would
paint portraits--unless I could paint just the people who would want me to
make my picture right."
Aaron King's face flushed at the words that were spoken so artlessly; and
he looked at her keenly. But the girl was wholly innocent of any purpose
other than to express her thoughts. She did not dream of the force with
which her simple words had gone home.
"You love the mountains, too, don't you?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes," he answered, "I love the mountains.
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