liked to be
thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy."

"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into
a chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."

"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay
me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.

"What are you doing in the wilds?"

"Painting," was the laconic retort.

"So I see. Still-life pictures?"

"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."

Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she
was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the
head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the
canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The
raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust of
the model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. A
red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling
sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and
contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were
idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was
a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild,
untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious
freedom of the road.

The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart climbed
to her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom enough to check
unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure. The
room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and a
small table filled its limited area. The walls and roof were painted a
pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor. Of
course, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel and
palettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platform
near the one window where the model could sit or stand. The window
itself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plenty
of light.

"The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeing
his visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put in
when I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices--in
sufficient quantity that is--to see the true tones of the colors."

"Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly