to find his tongue in the presence of a girl nearly his own age.

The two stopped in the shade of the willow. He set up the easel and
opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.

"Thank you," she said to him. "Did you get through with your work in the
field?"

"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. I got through shocking the
wheat some time ago."

"Is there a good crop! I don't know much about such things, but I want
to learn." She smiled up into his ruddy face.

"The wheat is fine. The heads are well developed. I wouldn't be
surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre."

"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the
palette.

Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the
canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.

"I thought you finished that picture yesterday," he said.

"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another
hour on it. The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I
want to put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can."

The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where he