_Bartlett_, making her sustain her weight more distinctly on his arm.--"By all means. Now, here, at this point, I think I'd better sketch you in that old oak down there at the foot of our hill, with its grape-vine, and you can work away at these without reference to Ponkwasset. The line of that clinging vine is one of the most graceful things that Nature--and Nature _does_ know a thing or two, Miss Wyatt; she's particularly good at clinging vines--ever drew." He looks at her over his shoulder with an involuntary sigh. Then, "Suppose"--he takes up the charcoal--"I do it now. No, don't disturb yourself." They lean forward, and as he sketches, their faces, drawn together, almost touch. Bartlett drops the pencil, and starts away, releasing his arm: "Oh, no, no!" _Constance_, simply.--"Can't you do it?" _Bartlett_, in deep emotion.--"No, no; I can't do it--I mustn't--it would be outrageous--I--I"-- Regaining his self-possession at sight of Constance's astonished face: "You said yourself just now that I had drawn everything in the picture. I can't do any more. _You_ must do the clinging vine!" _Constance_, innocently.--"Very well, I'll try. If you'll do the oak for me. I'll let you do _that_ much more." They regard each other, she with her innocent smile, he with a wild rapture of hope, doubt, and fear. Then Bartlett draws a long, despairing sigh, and turns away. _Bartlett._--"To-morrow, to-morrow!" He walks away, and returns to her. "Have you read--have you ever read The Talking Oak, Miss Wyatt?" _Constance._--"Tennyson's? A thousand times. Isn't it charming?" _Bartlett._--"It's absurd, I think. Do you remember where he makes the oak say of the young lady,-- 'And in a fit of frolic, mirth She strove to span my waist:.... I wish'd myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock'd her hands'?" _Constance._--"Why, that's lovely,--that attribution of human feeling to the tree. Don't you think so?" _Bartlett_, absently.--"Yes, yes; beautiful. But it's terrible, too; terrible. Supposing the oak really had human feeling; or supposing that a man had been meant in the figure of an oak"-- He has drawn near Constance again; but now he retreats. "Ah, I can't work out the idea." _Constance._--"What idea? I can't imagine what you mean." _Bartlett._--"Ah! I can. My trouble is, I can't _say_ what I mean! This was sometime a paradox." _Constance._--"Oh! I should think, a riddle." _Bartlett._--"Some day I hope you'll let me read it to you." _Constance._--"Why not now?" _Bartlett_, impetuously.--"If you only meant what you said, it would be--so much better than if I said what I meant!" _Constance._--"You are dealing in mysteries to-day."