Many times, he turned to search the flickering light and shade of
the undergrowth, behind him, for a glimpse of the girl's brown dress and
winsome face.
The next day she came.
The artist had been looking long at a splash of sunlight that fell upon
the gray granite boulder which was set in the green turf, and had turned
to his canvas for--it seemed to him--only an instant. When he looked again
at the boulder, she was standing there--had, apparently, been standing
there for some time, waiting with smiling lips and laughing eyes for him
to see her.
A light creel hung by its webbed strap from her shoulder; in her hand, she
carried a slender fly rod of good workmanship. Dressed in soft brown, with
short skirts and high laced boots, and her wavy hair tucked under a wide,
felt hat; with her blue eyes shining with fun, and her warmly tinted skin
glowing with healthful exercise; she appeared--to the artist--more as some
mythical spirit of the mountains, than as a maiden of flesh and blood. The
manner of her coming, too, heightened the impression. He had heard no
sound of her approach--no step, no rustle of the underbrush. He had seen
no movement among the bushes--no parting of the willows in the wall of
green.
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