"Well, then, _you_ talk to me, and I'll answer."
"I have a confession to make," he said, carefully studying the gray tones
of the alder trunk beyond the gray boulder.
"A confession?"
"Yes, I want to get it over--so it won't bother me."
"Something about me?"
"Yes."
"Why, that's what I am trying so hard to make you keep your eyes on your
work for--because _I_ have to make a confession to _you_."
"To me?"
"Yes--don't look around, please."
"But what under the sun can you have to confess to me?"
"You started yours first," she answered. "Go on. Maybe it will make it
easier for me."
Studiously keeping his eyes upon his canvas, he told her how he had
watched her from the cedar thicket. When he had finished,--and she was
silent,--he thought that she was angry, and turned about--expecting to see
her gathering up her things to go.
She was struggling to suppress her laughter. At the look of surprise on
his face, she burst forth in such a gale of merriment that the little
glade was filled with the music of her glee; while, in spite of himself,
the painter joined.
"Oh!" she cried, "but that _is_ funny! I am glad, glad!"
"Now, what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
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