Gregory Leslie was too astute a man, too experienced, to take his wandering naiad at her word, and paint her picture, asking no consent but her own. Never had a girl so puzzled him. Her rare beauty, found in so remote and rural a district; her delicate hands, soft, cultured tones, exquisite, high-bred grace, in contrast with her very common, simple, if tasteful, dress: and then her words, so odd--either purest innocence and simplicity, or curious art in wickedness. Who and what was the young enchantress? Then, too, her smile, the turn of her neck, her _way_ evoked constantly some shadowy reminiscence, some picture set far back and grown dim in the gallery of his memory, but surely there. Again and again he strove to catch the fleeing likeness, but at once, with the effort, it was gone. "If you want to paint me, begin!" said Doris, child-like. "Pardon. It would inconvenience you to stand here; the sketch even would take time. It must be a work of care. I shall do better if I have your permission to accompany you home. Also I must ask your parents' consent." "_They_ don't mind!" cried Doris, petulantly, after some little hesitation. "I am only a farmer's daughter." She flushed with bitter vexation at the thought, but seeing the artist immovable in his purpose, added: "I live at Brackenside, it is not far; you can easily come there." "If you will permit," said Gregory, with courtesy. "You can come. I have no objection," said Doris, with the air of a princess. She picked up her basket, and moved away with the grace, the proud bearing of "the daughter of a hundred earls." Gregory Leslie marveled more and more. As an artist, he was enraptured; as a man, he was puzzled by this new Daphne. Doris, seemingly forgetting her new cavalier, yet taking a rapid side look at him, considered that he was very handsome, if getting a little gray; also, that his air was that of a man of the world, a dash of the picturesque added to the culture of cities. She wished Earle would meet them, and go into a spasm of jealousy. But Earle was spared that experience, and only Mark, Patty, and Mattie Brace were at the farm-house, to be dazzled with the beauty's conquest. Arrived at the gate, Doris turned with proud humility to her escort. "This is my home. I do not like it. Most people think the place pretty." "It is a paradise!" said Leslie, enthusiastically. "Then it must have a serpent in it," quoth Doris. "I hope not," said Leslie. "It has. I have felt it bite!" Mark Brace, with natural courtesy, came from the door to meet them. "This is an artist that I met at the knoll," said Doris, calmly. "He is looking for subjects for pictures. I think he mentioned his name was Mr. Leslie, and he wishes to paint me." "Wants a picture of you, my darling!" said honest Mark, his face lighting with a smile. "Then he shows his good taste. Walk in, sir; walk in. Let us ask my wife."