‘Yes, I remember your saying so,’ said Rosalie. The ice was broken now and she could talk to him freely, even taking courage to broach a subject which had much occupied her thoughts lately. ‘You told me, you know, how pleased you were at the sight of the cornfield in—in my picture.’ He did not turn towards her, and continued to scan the mead; but over his brown face she saw the colour rush quickly. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said; ‘of course I remember telling you about it.’ ‘I wanted to ask you was—was the picture a very large one; and was it well painted?’ ‘Yes, very large indeed, and beautifully painted. There was an iron railing in front of it because people pressed round it so. I was told it was the picture of the year.’ ‘Was it?’ cried Rosalie; and at the note of delight in her voice he turned and looked at her with a smile. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes shining. ‘Oh!’ she cried, with a sigh of longing, ‘I would give anything to see it.’ ‘I have a little print of it here,’ returned he impulsively; ‘I cut it out of a paper. It will give you some idea of it, though of course a very poor one.’ In another moment he partly withdrew from its enclosure the print in question, holding the envelope firmly in his own hand, however, so that the charred margin was hidden. ‘See,’ he said, pointing with his disengaged hand, ‘there is your house—over there in the corner, and here are your men, and here, under the piled-up sheaves, are you. But of course the figure in the picture is far more like you.’ ‘I see,’ said Rosalie. ‘Yes, it must be a nice picture; and you say it is beautifully done?’ ‘It is beautifully done. It is so real, so vivid, that I felt as if I could walk into the picture. These sheaves stand out so that one might think it easy to pass behind them.’ He glanced up as he said these words, and was surprised to see Rosalie colour almost to the temples. His own heart gave a sudden throb. Was it possible that she had divined the audacious thought which had so often come to him as he recalled that picture, and which, since his uncle’s revelations, he had resolutely striven to banish? As a matter of fact there did happen to be a certain similarity between this thought of his and that which had caused Rosalie to change colour. For there had flashed across her mind the remembrance of the unknown artist’s words: ‘Perhaps if I come across a very attractive specimen of a rustic I may place him just behind the stook.’ ‘This is the name underneath, I suppose?’ she said hastily. ‘What is the picture called? I cannot see from here.’ ‘It is called “A Sleeping Beauty,”’ returned Richard.