‘Let us see,’ he murmured; ‘that kiss spoke volumes. It must be a sweetheart at the very least; yet when she came swinging down the meadow-path she certainly looked heart-whole. Here we are—a brand-new stone. Funny name—Elias Fiander! No—aged sixty-two. Must have been her father, or perhaps her grandfather—the girl looked young enough—so all my pretty romance has come to nothing. I wish she had stayed a few minutes longer—I would give something to make a sketch of her.’ He went back to his work whistling, and thinking over Rosalie’s beautiful face and figure regretfully, and with an admiration that was entirely æsthetic, for he had a cheery, rotund little wife at home in London, and half a dozen children to provide for, so that he was not given to sentiment. It was, perhaps, because his admiration was so innocent and his ambition so laudable, that a few days later his wish to transfer Rosalie’s charms to canvas was granted in a most unexpected way. It had been unusually hot, and the artist, having finished his sketch of the porch, was proceeding by a short cut through Littlecomb Farm to the downs beyond, in search of cooler air, when, on crossing a cornfield at the further end of which the reapers were busily at work, he suddenly came upon a woman’s figure lying in the shade of a ‘shock’ of sheaves. The first glance announced her identity; the second assured him that she was fast asleep. She had removed her hat, and her clasped hands supported her head, the upward curve of the beautiful arms being absolutely fascinating to the artist’s eye. The oval face with its warm colouring, the slightly loosened masses of dark hair, were thrown into strong relief by the golden background; the absolute abandonment of the whole form was so perfect in its grace that he paused, trembling with artistic delight, and hardly daring to breathe lest he should disturb her. But Rosalie, overcome with the heat and tired out after a hard morning’s work, slept peacefully on while he swung his satchel round, opened it quickly, and began with swift deft fingers to make a rapid sketch of her. A few light pencil strokes suggested the exquisite lines of the prostrate form, and he had already begun to dash on the colour, when, with a loud shriek and flapping of wings, a blackbird flew out of the neighbouring hedge, and Rosalie stirred and opened her eyes. Rosalie’s eyes always took people by surprise, and the artist, who had not before noticed their colour, suffered his to rest upon them appreciatively while they were still hazy with sleep; but when, with returning consciousness, he observed a sudden wonder and indignation leap into them, he threw out his hand hastily. ‘One moment, if you please—stay just as you are for one moment.’ Still under the influence of her recent heavy slumber, and taken aback by the peremptory tone, Rosalie obeyed. ‘What are you doing?’ she inquired suspiciously, but without changing her posture.