The bright waters of the spring, softly held by the green sod, crept away under the living wall, without a sound; but the deep murmur of the distant, larger stream, reached the place like the low tones of some great organ.

A few regularly placed stones, where once had stood the family spring-house; with the names, initials, hearts and dates carved upon the smooth bark of the alders--now grown over and almost obliterated--seemed to fill the spot with ghostly memories.
All that afternoon, the artist remained in the little retreat.

The next day, equipped with easel, canvas and paint-box, he went again to the glade--determined to make a picture of the charming scene.
For a month, now, uninterrupted by the distractions of social obligations or the like, Aaron King had been subjected to influences that had aroused the creative passion of his artist soul to its highest pitch.

With his genius clamoring for expression, he had denied himself the medium that was his natural language.

Forbidding his friend to accompany him, he worked now in the spring glade with a delight--with an ecstasy--that he had seldom, before, felt.