ink　a　moment；　Ollie；〃　and　her　eyes　snapped。　〃Hank　finds　a　robin　that　has　tumbled　out　of　its　nest；　and　spends　half　a　day　putting　it　back。　Hank　follows　you　up　the　brook　and　sees　you　try　to　throw　a　fly　into　a　pool；　and　he　knows　just　how　awkwardly　you　do　it；　for　he's　the　best　fisherman　　in　the　woodsand　yet　you　never　see　a　smile　cross　his　face；　nor　does　he　ever　speak　of　it　behind　your　backnot　even　to　me。　Hank　walks　across　Moose　Hillock　to　find　old　Jonathan　Gordon　to　tell　him　he　has　some　big　trout　in　Loon　Pond；　so　that　the　old　man　can　have　the　fun　of　catching　them　and　selling　them　afterward　to　the　new　hotel　in　the　Notch。　He　has　walked　twenty…four　miles　when　he　gets　back。　Do　these　things　make　Hank　a　gentleman；　or　not？〃
  〃Then　you　don't　believe　in　Sir　Walter　Raleigh；　Miss　Democrat；　simply　because　he　was　a　lord？〃
  〃Yesbut　I　always　thought　he　wore　his　old　cloak　that　day　on　purpose；　so　he　could　be　made　an　earl。〃　And　a　ripple　of　laughter　escaped　her　lips。
  Oliver　laughed　too；　sprang　to　his　feet；　and　held　out　his　hands　so　as　to　lift　her　up。　None　of　these　fine…drawn　distinctions　really　interested　himcertainly　　not　on　this　day；　when　he　was　so　happy。　Why；　he　wondered；　should　she　want　to　discuss　theories　and　beliefs　and　creeds；　with　the　beautiful　forest　all　about　and　the　sky　breaking　overhead？
  〃Well；　you've　walked　over　mine　many　a　time；　Miss　Queen　Elizabeth；　and　you　haven't　decorated　me　yet；　nor　made　me　an　earl　nor　anything　else　for　it；　and　I'm　not　going　to　forgive　you　either；〃　and　he　rose　to　his　feet。　〃Look！　Madge；　look！〃　he　cried；　and　sprang　out　into　the　path；　pointing　to　the　sunshine　　bursting　through　the　treesthe　storm　had　passed　as　suddenly　as　it　had　come。　〃Isn't　it　glorious！　　Come　here　quick！　Don't　wait　a　minute。　I　should　try　to　get　that　with　Naples　yellow　and　a　little　chromewhat　do　you　think？〃　he　asked　when　she　stood　beside　him；　half　closing　his　eyes；　to　get　the　effect　the　better。
  Margaret　looked　at　him　curiously　for　a　moment。　She　did　not　answer。　〃I　cannot　fasten　his　mind　on　anything　in　which　I　am　interested；〃　she　said　to　herself；　　with　a　sigh；　〃nor　shall　I　ever　overcome　these　prejudices　which　seem　to　be　part　of　his　very　life。〃
  She　paused　a　moment　and　an　expression　of　pain　passed　over　her　face。
  〃Pale　cadmium　would　be　better；〃　she　said；　quietly；　　with　a　touch　of　indifference　in　her　tone；　and　led　the　way　out　of　the　forest　to　the　main　road。
  CHAPTER　XV
  MRS。　TAFT'S　FRONT　PORCH
  The　autumn　fires　were　being　kindled　on　the　mountains　fires　of　maple；　oak；　and　birch。　Along　the　leaf…strewn　roads　the　sumach　blazed　scarlet；　and　over　the　rude　stone　fences　blood…red　lines　of　fire　　followed　the　trend　of　leaf　and　vine。　Golden　pumpkins　　lay　in　the　furrows　of　the　corn；　showers　of　apples　carpeted　the　grass　of　the　orchards；　the　crows　in　straight　lines；　and　the　busy　squirrels　worked　from　dawn　till　dark。
  Over　all　settled　the　requiem　haze　of　the　dead　summer；　blurring　the　Notch　and　softening　Moose　Hillock　to　a　film　of　gray　against　the　pale　sky。
  It　had　been　a　summer　of　very　great　sweetness　and　charmthe　happiest　of　Oliver's　life。　He　had　found　that　he　could　do　fairly　well　the　things　that　he　liked　to　do　best；　that　the　technical　difficulties　that　had　　confronted　him　when　he　began　to　paint　were　being　　surmounted　as　the　weeks　went　by；　and　that　the　thing　that　had　always　been　a　pain　to　him　had　now　become　a　pleasurepain；　because；　try　as　he　might；　the　quality　　of　the　result　was　always　below　his　hopes；　a　pleasure；　　because　some　bit　of　bark；　perhaps；　or　glint　of　light　on　moss…covered　rock；　or　tender　vista　had　at　last　stood　out　on　his　canvas　with　every　tone　of　color　true。
  Only　a　painter　can　understand　what　all　this　meant　to　Oliver；　only　an　out…of…door　painter；　really。　The　〃studio…man〃　who　reproduces　an　old　study　which　years　before　has　inspired　him；　or　who　evolves　a　　composition　from　his　inner　consciousness；　has　no　such　thrills　over　his　work。　He　may；　perhaps；　have　other　sensations；　but　they　will　lack　the　spontaneous　outburst　　of　enthusiasm　over　the　old　sketch。
  And　how　glorious　are　the　memories！
  The　victorious　painter　has　been　weeks　over　these　same　trees　that　have　baffled　him；　he　has　painted　them　on　gray　days　and　sunny　days；　in　the　morning；　at　noon；　and　in　the　gloaming。　He　has　loved　their　texture　and　the　thousand　little　lights　and　darks；　the　sparkle　of　the　black；　green；　or　gray　moss；　and　the　delicate　tones　that　played　up　and　down　their　stalwart　　trunks。　He　has　toiled　in　the　heat　of　the　day；　his　nerves　on　edge；　and　sometimes　great　drops　of　sweat　on　his　troubled　forehead。　Now　and　then　he　has　sprung　from　his　seat　for　a　farther…away　look　at　his　sketch。　With　a　sigh　and　a　heart　bowed　down　（oh；　how　desolate　are　these　hours！）　he　has　noted　how　wooden　and　commonplace　and　mean　and　despicable　his　work　waswhat　an　insult　he　has　cast　upon　the　beautiful　yellow　birch；　this　outdoor；　motionless；　old　model　that　has　stood　so　patiently　before　him；　posing　all　day　without　moving；　its　big　arms　above　its　head　its　leaves　and　branches　stock…still　to　make　it　all　the　easier　for　him。
  Suddenly　in　all　this　depression；　an　inspiration　has　entered　his　dull　brainhe　will　use　burnt　umber　in　stead　of　Vandyke　brown　for　the　bark！　or　light　chrome　and　indigo　instead　of　yellow　ochre　and　black　for　the　green！
  Presto！　Ah；　that's　like　it！　Another　pat；　and　another；　and　still　one　more！
  How　quickly　now　the　canvas　loses　its　pasty　mediocrity。　　How　soon　the　paint　and　the　brush…marks　and　the　niggly　little　touches　fade　away　and　the　THING　ITSELF　comes　out　and　says　〃How　do　you　do？〃　and　that　it　is　so　glad　to　see　him；　and　that　it　has　been　lurking　behind　these　colors　all　day；　trying　to　make　his　acquaintance；　and　he　would　have　none　of　it。　What　good　friends　he　and　the　sketch　have　become　now；　how　proud　he　is　of　it；　and　of　possessing　it　and　of　CREATING　it！　Then　little　quivery…quavers　go　creeping　　up　and　down　his　spine　and　away　out　to　his　fingertips；　　and　he　KNOWS　that　he　has　something　really　GOOD。
  He　carries　it　home　in　his　hand；　oh；　so　carefully　（he　strapped　its　predecessor　on　his　back　yesterday　without　　caring）；　and　a　dozen　times　he　stops　to　look　at　its　dear　face；　propping　it　against　a　stump　for　a　better　light；　just　to　see　if　he　had　not　been　mistaken　after　all。　He　can　hardly　wait　until　it　is　dark　enough　to　see　how　it　looks　by　gas…light；　or　candle…light；　or　　kerosene；　or　whatever　else　he　may　have　in　his　quarters。　Years　after；　the　dear　old　thing　is　still　hanging　on　his　studio　wall。　He　has　never　sold　it　nor　given　it　away。　He　could　notit　was　too　valuable；　too　constantly　giving　him　good　advice　and　showing　him　what　the　thing　WAS。　Not　what　he　thought　it　was；　or　hoped　it　was；　or　would　like　it　to　be；　but　what　it　WAS。
  Yes；　there　may　be　triumphs　that　come　to　men　digging　away　on　the　dull　highway　of　lifetriumphs　in　business；　in　politics；　in　discovery；　in　law；　medicine；　　and　science。　To　each　and　every　profession　and　pursuit　there　must　come；　and　does　come；　a　time　when　a　rush　of　uncontrollable　feeling　surges　through　the　victor's　soul；　crowning　long　hours　of　work；　but　they　are　as　dry　ashes　to　a　thirsty　man　compared　to　the　boundless　ecstasy　a　painter　feels　when；　with　a　becaked　　palette；　some　half…dried　tubes　of　color；　and　a　few　worn…out；　ragged　brushes；　he　compels　a　six…by…　nine　canvas　to　glow　with　life　and　truth。
  All　this　Oliver　knew　and　felt。　The　work　of　the　summer；　attended　at　first　with　a　certain　sense　of　　disappointment；　had；　during　the　last　few　weeks　of　sojourn；　　as　his　touch　grew　surer；　not　only　become　a　positive　pleasure　to　him；　but　had　produced　an　exaltation　　that　had　kept　our　young　gentleman　walking　on　clouds　most　of　the　time；　his　head　in　the　blue　ether。
  Margaret's　nice　sense　of　color　and　correct　eye　had　hastened　this　result。　She　could　grasp　at　the　first　glance　the　masses　of　light　and　shade；　giving　each　its　proper　value　in　the　composition。　She　and　Oliver。　really　studied　out　their　compositions　together　before　either　one　set　a　palette；　a　most　desirable　practice；　by　the　way；　not　only　for　tyros；　but　for　Academicians。
  This　relying　upon　Margaret's　judgment　had　become　　a　habit　with　Oliver。　He　not　only　consulted　her　about　his　canvases；　but　about　everything　else　that　concerned　him。　He　had　never　formulated　in　his　mind　what　this　kind　of　companionship　meant　to　him　（we　never　do　when　we　are　in　the　midst　of　it）；　nor　had　he　ever　considered　what　would　become　of　him　when　the　summer　was　over；　and　the　dream　would　end；　and　they　each　would　return　to　the　customary　dulness　of　life；　a　life　where　there　would　be　no　blue　ether　nor　clouds；　nor　vanishing　points；　nor　values；　nor　tones；　nor　anything　else　that　had　made　their　heaven　of　a　summer　so　happy。
  They　had　both　lived　in　this　paradise　for　weeks　without　once　bringing　themselves　to　believe　it　could　ever　end　（why　do　not　such　episodes　last　forever？）　when　Oliver　awoke　one　morning　to　the　fact　that　the　fatal　day　of　their　separation　would　be　upon　him　in　a　week's　time　or　less。　Margaret；　with　her　more　practical　mind；　had　seen　farther　ahead　than　Oliver；　and　her　laugh；　in　consequence；　had　been　less　spontaneous　　of　late；　and　her　interest　in　her　work　and　in　Oliver's　less　intense。　She　was　overpowered　by　another　　sensation；　she　had　been　thinking　of　the　day；　now　so　near；　when　the　old　stage　would　drive　up　to　Mrs。　Taft's　pasture…gate；　and　her　small　trunk　and　trap　would　be　carried