painting in the studio, so that they won't suspect anything, if you keep
still."

Allowing him no opportunity to speak again, she closed the door, leaving
him once more in darkness. Sitting in the constraint she imposed upon him,
he could hear her moving in the outer room, where, owing to the lightness
of the wooden partition, it was not difficult to guess what she was doing
at any given moment. He knew when she opened the outer door and moved the
easel toward the entrance. He knew when she took down the apron from its
peg and pinned it on. He knew when she drew up a chair and pretended to
set to work. In the hour or two of silence that ensued he was sure that,
whatever she might be doing with her brush, she was keeping eye and ear
alert in his defence.

Who was she? What interest had she in his fate? What power had raised her
up to help him? Even yet he had scarcely seen her face; but he had
received an impression of intelligence. He was sure she was no more than a
girl--certainly not twenty--and yet she acted with the decision of
maturity. At the same time there was about her that suggestion of a wild
origin--that something not wholly tamed to the dictates of civilized
life--which persisted in his imagination, even if he could not verify it
in fact.

Twice in the course of the morning he heard voices. Men spoke to her
through the open doorway, and she replied. Once he distinguished her
words.

"Oh no," she called out to some one at a distance. "I'm not afraid. He
won't do me any harm. I've got Micmac with me. I often stay here all day,
but I shall go home early. Thanks," she added, in response to some further