Confessions in the Spring Glade All the next day, while he worked upon his picture in the glade, Aaron King listened for that voice in the organ-like music of the distant waters.

Many times, he turned to search the flickering light and shade of the undergrowth, behind him, for a glimpse of the girl's brown dress and winsome face.
The next day she came.
The artist had been looking long at a splash of sunlight that fell upon the gray granite boulder which was set in the green turf, and had turned to his canvas for--it seemed to him--only an instant.

When he looked again at the boulder, she was standing there--had, apparently, been standing there for some time, waiting with smiling lips and laughing eyes for him to see her.
A light creel hung by its webbed strap from her shoulder; in her hand, she carried a slender fly rod of good workmanship.

Dressed in soft brown, with short skirts and high laced boots, and her wavy hair tucked under a wide, felt hat; with her blue eyes shining with fun, and her warmly tinted skin glowing with healthful exercise; she appeared--to the artist--more as some mythical spirit of the mountains, than as a maiden of flesh and blood.

The manner of her coming, too, heightened the impression.