Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's life did not differ from like incidents in many lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian at this time never admitted to himself that he was in love with the girl. He sensed very well that she was far above him in every way. The thought that she might ever become his wife never obtained foothold in him more than for a fleeting moment: that was impossible, then why think of it. But there could be no harm in loving her as he loved his mother, or as he loved the flowers, the clear-flowing water, the warm sun and the blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up to her as he did to the stars at night. He could also strive to rise to her level, if that were possible. He was going to the High school the coming winter, then perhaps to the University. He could get to know as much of school learning as she, anyway. He never would become a painter of pictures or a musician, but surely there were other things which he could learn which would be worth while. There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still lay on the grass, his one-time effort to ask a girl to a dance. He recalled what care he had taken in washing and combing and dressing, how he had finally cut cross-lots to the girl's home for fear of being seen, for surely he had thought, everybody must know what he was up to!--how he had lingered about the back door, and had at last, when the door opened, scudded back home as fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the finest girl he had ever seen was chumming with him, and he was not afraid, that is, not very much afraid. When Mildred had packed up to go home on the occasion of her former visit she had invited Mrs. Trent to take her pick of her drawings for her own. "All but this," Mildred had said. "This which I call 'Sunset in the Marshland' I am going to give to Dorian." The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. There was a panel in crayon which the artist said was the big cottonwood down by the Corners. Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have known it, but then, she added apologetically, she never had an eye for art. There was a winter scene where the houses were so sunk into the earth that only the roofs were visible. (Mrs. Trent had often wondered why the big slanting roofs were the only artistic thing about a house). Another picture showed a high, camel-backed bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen the bridge because of its pretty colors. "Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" Mildred had asked. They had gone into his room. Mildred had looked about. "The only good light is on that wall." She had pointed to the space occupied by Dorian's "best girl." And so Lorna Doone had come down and Mildred's study of the marshlands glowed with its warmer colors in its place. The plowboy arose from the grass. "Get up there," he said to his horses. "We must be going, or there'll be very little plowing today."