ds and cut with a knife.
The landscape is beautiful.

"All the lines are so simple," the artist explained. "The shore, the
sea, the gray rocks, with here and there the roof of a quaint cottage
to enliven the effect, and few trees, only just enough for contrast with
the long, sweeping lines."

"You don't like trees?" asked Miss Lamont.

"Yes, in themselves. But trees are apt to be in the way. There are
too many trees in America. It is not often you can get a broad, simple
effect like this."

It happened to be a day when the blue of the sea was that of the
Mediterranean, and the sky and sea melted into each other, so that a
distant sail-boat seemed to be climbing into the heavens. The waves
rolled in blue on the white sand beach, and broke in silver. Three
young girls on horseback galloping in a race along the hard beach at the
moment gave the needed animation to a very pretty picture.

North of this the land comes down to the sea in knolls of rock breaking
off suddenly-rocks gray with lichen, and shaded with a touch of other
vegetation. Between these knifeback ledges are plots of sea-green grass
and sedge, with little ponds, black, and mirroring the sky. Leaving this
wild bit of nature, which has got the name of Paradise (perhaps because
few people go there), the road back to town sweeps through sweet farm
land; the smell of hay is in the air, loads of hay encumber the roads,
flowers in profusion half smother the farm cottages, and the trees of
the apple-orchards are gnarled and picturesque as olives.

The younger members of the party climbed up into this paradise one day,
leaving the elders in their carriages. They came into a new world, as
unlike Newport as if they had been a thousand miles away. The spot
was wilder than it looked from a distance. The high ridges of rock lay
parallel, with bosky valleys and ponds between, and the sea shining in
the south--all in miniature. On the way to the ridges they passed clean
pasture fields, bowlders, gray rocks, aged cedars with flat tops like
the stone-pines of Italy. It was all wild but exquisite, a refined
wildness recalling the pictures of Rousseau.

Irene and Mr. King strolled along one of the ridges, and sat down on
a rock looking off upon the peaceful expanse, the silver lines of the
curving shores, and the blue sea dotted with white sails.

"Ah," said the girl, with an inspiration, "this is the sort of
five-o'clock I like."

"And I'm sure I'd rather be here wi