"Fame doesn't seem to matter so much, does it; when one is up here in the hills and the canyon gates are closed." She echoed his laughter with quick delight.

"Did you see that?
Did you see those great doors open to let you in, and then close again behind you as if to shut the world outside?
But of course you would.

Any one who could do that"-- she pointed to the canvas--"would not fail to see the canyon gates." With her eyes again upon the picture, she seemed once more to forget the presence of the painter.
Watching her face,--that betrayed her every passing thought and emotion as an untroubled pool mirrors the flowers that grow on its banks or the song-bird that pauses to drink,--the artist--to change her mood--said, "You _love_ the mountains, don't you ?" She turned her face toward him, again, as she answered simply, "Yes, I love the mountains." "If you were a painter,"-- he smiled,--"you would paint them, wouldn't you ?" "I don't know that I would,"-- she answered thoughtfully,--"but I would try to get the mountains into my picture, whatever it was.

I wonder if you know what I mean ?" "Yes," he answered, "I think I know what you mean; and it is a beautiful thought.

You wouldn't paint portraits, would you ?" "I don't think I _could_," she answered.