And Conrad Lagrange, wisely, was content to let him go uninterrupted.
As the hours of each day passed, the artist became more and more engrossed with his art.

His spirit sang with the joy of receiving the loveliness of the scene before him, of making it his own, and of giving it forth again--a literal part of himself.

The memories suggested by the stones of the spring-house foundation and the old carvings on the trees; the sunlight, falling so softly into the hushed seclusion of the glade, as through the traceried windows of a church; and the deep organ-tones of the distant creek; all served to give to the spot the religious atmosphere of a sanctuary; while the artist's abandonment in his work was little short of devotion.
It was the third afternoon, when the painter became conscious that he had been hearing for some time--he could not have said how long--a low-sung melody--so blending with the organ-tones of the mountain stream that it seemed to come out of the music of the tumbling waters.
With his brush poised between palette and canvas, the artist paused,--turning his head to listen,--half inclined to the belief that his fancy was tricking him.

But no; the singer was coming nearer; the melody was growing more distinct; but still the voice was in perfect harmony with the deep-toned accompaniment of the distant creek.
Then he saw her.

Dressed in soft brown that blended subtly with the green of the willows, the gray of the alder trunks, the russet of rose and blackberry-bush, and the umber of the swinging grape-vines--in the flickering sunshine, the soft changing half-lights, and deep shadows--she appeared to grow out of the scene itself; even as her low-sung melody grew out of the organ-sound of the waters.
To get the effect that satisfied him best, the painter had placed his easel a little back from the grassy, open spot.