"What in the world are you doing ?" he asked curiously.
"You are not supposed to know that I am doing anything," she retorted.
"You have been peeking again." "You were so still--I feared you had vanished," he laughed.

"If you'll keep talking to me, I'll know you are there, and will be good." "Sure it won't bother ?" "Sure," he answered.
"Well, then, _you_ talk to me, and I'll answer." "I have a confession to make," he said, carefully studying the gray tones of the alder trunk beyond the gray boulder.
"A confession ?" "Yes, I want to get it over--so it won't bother me." "Something about me ?" "Yes." "Why, that's what I am trying so hard to make you keep your eyes on your work for--because _I_ have to make a confession to _you_." "To me ?" "Yes--don't look around, please." "But what under the sun can you have to confess to me ?" "You started yours first," she answered.

"Go on.

Maybe it will make it easier for me." Studiously keeping his eyes upon his canvas, he told her how he had watched her from the cedar thicket.

When he had finished,--and she was silent,--he thought that she was angry, and turned about--expecting to see her gathering up her things to go.
She was struggling to suppress her laughter.