“The well is on the other side of the house,” she said, making a motion in that direction with a thin, nervous, unchildlike hand. Her words and manner expressed the utmost indifference--yet there was a gleam of interest in her big, clear eyes. The stranger moved on, murmuring thanks. She looked after him with a sudden yearning in her heart for his return. He was not of her world, that was sure; and yet somehow it was quite clear to her that he was of her world--the world of her dreams, where she longed to be, fancied she had been, and from whence she had somehow sadly strayed. Yes, in that instant of contact she understood that in spite of all apparent difference their worlds were the same. In another moment he returned. Gracefully begging permission, he seated himself on the grass and leaned against the tree. His manner captivated her. It was respectful and deferential as to a woman grown. It enchanted her, for she was one of those misunderstood children who have thoughts and feelings far beyond their years and suffer great humiliation when treated patronizingly. “You are not at all afraid of me although I came unannounced and unintroduced, are you?” he asked, half laughing. “Afraid? Why should I be? I am in my own door-yard. Besides, you don’t look like a wild beast, and if you were one, here is Bliss to take care of me.” “Thank you. It’s a comfort to know you have no doubt that I am human. But what is this?” he asked, as a piece of cardboard blew toward him. “Ah! a drawing. May I look at it?” She nodded her consent. It was a pencil drawing of a woman’s head, and interested him at first glance, because, imperfect though it was, it had that which makes art great when it is so--the human quality, the power to express its creator, the aim and object of all art. This penciled face gave an insight into the artist’s mind, showing that which she had tried to express and yet had not made clear. It showed the height to which she rose in fancy, and the long and rugged road between present performance and the perfection of which she dreamed. All this the stranger saw, because we see what is within ourselves. It takes genius to recognize genius. He had traveled the road on which she was taking her first feeble steps. “Is it your work?” he asked. “Yes,” she nodded, coloring faintly. It was plain that she expected no praise, yet longed for a helping word. “Is it a copy?” he asked, for there was about it, although but half expressed, that which he thought must have been suggested by something from a master hand. “No.” “Then who is it?” There was unaffected interest in his voice. “One of my people,” she answered. “Does she live here?” “She is here sometimes, not always.” “Well, she must be a beautiful woman--even more beautiful than you depict her.”