looked up and directly at her. Overcome by sudden shyness, she stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot; then, awkwardly offering her basket, she stammered, "Will you have it?" When he did not answer she simply set the basket down before him, and in her confusion would have avoided all explanations by running away.

But a warm young hand detained her firmly and kindly. "Did you come from there?" the lad asked, pointing to the castle. "Who sent you?"

His voice was agreeable, and his address that of a well-born youth.

"No one knows that I came," she answered, in confusion, and seeing that he frowned discontentedly at this, she added hastily, by way of excuse, "But if mamma had been at home she certainly would have sent me; she never lets a beggar leave the house without giving him something to eat."

At the word 'beggar' he turned away, whereupon she began to cry loudly, so loudly that he had to laugh. "But what are you crying for?" he asked; and she replied, in desperation, "I am crying because you will not eat anything."

"Indeed! is that all you are crying for?"

"Yes. Oh, do eat something,--do!" she sobbed.

"Well, since it is to gratify you so hugely," he replied, in a bantering tone; "but sit down beside me and help me." He looked full into her eyes with his careless, merry smile, then took her tiny hand in his and pressed his full, warm lips upon it twice.

She was greatly pleased by this courteous homage, and perhaps by the caress, for it was seldom that anything of the kind fell to her share. She had fully decided that the young fellow was no mechanic, but a prince in disguise, and in this exhilarating conviction she sat down upon the grass beside him and unpacked her basket. How he seemed to enjoy its contents, and how white his teeth were! There were also various indications of refinement and good breeding about his manner of eating, which would have given a more experienced observer than the little enthusiast beside him matter for reflection with regard to his rank in life. His portfolio lay beside him. She thrust a slender forefinger between its pasteboard covers tied together with green cotton strings, and whispered, gravely, "May I look into it?"

"If you would like to," he replied.

With great precision, as if the matter in hand were the unveiling of a sacred relic, she untied the strings and opened the portfolio. Her eyes opened wide, and an "Oh!" of enthusiastic admiration escaped her lips. A wiser critic than the little girl of nine would scarcely have accorded the sketches so much approval. They were undoubtedly stiff and unfinished. Nevertheless, no genuine lover of art would have passed them by without notice, for they indicated a high degree of talent. The hand was unskilled, but the lad had eyes to see.

The little girl gazed in rapt admiration. After a while she looked gravely up at her new friend, her compassion converted into awe. "Now I know what you are,--an artist!"

"Do you think so?" the lad rejoined, flattered by the reverential tone in which the word was uttered: meanwhile, he had finished the pheasant, and was considerably less pale than before.

"Can you paint everything you see?" she asked, after a short pause.

"I cannot paint anything," he answered, with a sort of merry discontent which, now that his hunger was satisfied, characterized his every look and movement. "I cannot paint anything," he repeated, with a little nod, "but I try to paint everything that I like."

They looked in each other's eyes, he suppressing a laugh, she in some distress. At last she blurted out, "Do you not like me at all, then?"

"Shall I paint you?"

She nodded.

"What will you give me for it?"

She put her hand in her pocket, and took out a very shabby porte-monnaie, a superannuated possession of Herr von Strachinsky's which he had given her in a moment of unwonted generosity, and in which were five bright silver guilders. "Is that enough?" she asked.

"I will not take money," he replied.

She had been guilty of another stupidity. She was bitterly conscious of it, and so, to justify herself, she put on an air of great wisdom. "You are a very queer artist," she admonished him, "not to take money for your pictures. No wonder you nearly starve."

He took the hand which held the five despised silver coins, and kissed it three times.

"I do take money for my pictures," he declared, "but not from you: I will draw your picture with all my heart."

"For nothing?"

"No: you must give me a kiss for it. Will you?" He watched her without seeming to look at her. Again the insinuating, roguish smile hovered upon his lips,--a charming smile, which he must have inherited from some kind, light-hearted woman.

She was not quite sure of the rectitude of her conduct, her heart throbbed almost as if she were on the verge of some compact with Satan, but finally, "If you will not do it without," she said, with a sigh, plucking at her hands,--very pretty hands, neglected though they were.

He nodded gaily. "All right."

Then he made her sit down on the grass opposite him, unpacked his tin colour-case, fastened a piece of rough gray paper upon the cover of his portfolio, and began.

She sat very still, very grave, her feet stretched out straight in front of her, supporting herself upon both hands. Around them breathed the soft August air, the glowing summer sunshine sparkled on the translucent waters of the little brook above which the stone bridge displayed its pompous proportions, while upon the banks grew hundreds of blue forget-me-nots, and yellow water-lilies bloomed among the trunks of the old willows, which here and there showed gaping wounds in their bark, from which meadow daisies were sprouting and, with the silvery willow leaves, showing softly gray against the green background of the gentle ascent of the pasture-land. The brook murmured dreamily, and from the distance came the rhythmic beat of the threshers' flails. Steam threshing-machines were not then in general use.

Both were mute,--he in the warmth of his youthful artistic enthusiasm, she with expectation.

Suddenly the shrill tinkle of a bell broke the quiet. "That is the dinner-bell!" the little girl exclaimed, springing up with an impatient shrug. She knew that there could be no more pleasure and liberty for her; she would be missed, looked for, and found.

"I must go home," she cried. "Have you finished it?"

"Very nearly, yes."

She ran and looked over his shoulder, breathless with astonishment at what she saw upon the gray paper,--a little girl in a very short, faded gown, and long red stockings, also much faded, a very slender figure, a little round face, a delicate little nose, two grave bright eyes that looked out into the world with a startled expression, a short upper lip, a round chin, a very fair skin, and shining reddish-brown hair which waved long and silky about the narrow childish shoulders and was tied at the back of the head with a blue ribbon.

He had unfastened the sketch from the portfolio, and she held it in her hands, examining it narrowly. "Is it like?" she asked, and then, looking down at herself, she added, "The gown is like, and the stockings are like, but the face,--is that like?" She looked up at him eagerly.

"I cannot do it any better," he replied, rather ambiguously.

"Oh, you must not be vexed," she made haste to say. "I only wanted to know if--how can I tell--if--well, it looks