He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect
few born to grace of motion. Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy
that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect
health. No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor
have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of
limb and body.

Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so
poignantly to the root of his emotions. Every turn of the head, the set
of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the
fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and
fascinated him. She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love
personified.

She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike
directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors.
A movement of his hand stayed her as she took from, the easel the one
upon which she had been engaged.

It represented the sun-drenched slope below them, with the little gulch
dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows.

"You've got that fine," he told her enthusiastically.

She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to
her judgment as merited.

"No, I didn't get it at all. A great artist might get the wonder of it;
but I can't."