There was something in her tone that made him look at her questioningly. "I think," he said, "your gratitude is easily earned." "Oh, no," she retorted; "I am the most ungrateful of beings. Isn't that uncle sitting there?" she added, quickly, to change the subject. He looked up. "Yes, he is hard at work. I did not think I should have won him. It was my sister's name that worked the magic charm." "He is fond of your sister," said Stella, thoughtfully. His eyes were on her in an instant. "He has spoken of her?" he said. Stella could have bitten her tongue out for the slip. "Yes," she said. "He--he told me about her--I asked him whose house it was upon the hills." "Meaning the Hall?" he said, pointing with his whip. "Yes, and he told me. I knew by the way he spoke of your sister that he was fond of her. Her name is Lilian, is it not?" "Yes," he said, "Lilian," and the name left his lips with soft tenderness. "I think every one who knows her loves her. This picture is for her." Stella glanced up at his face; anything less imperious at that moment it would be impossible to imagine. "Lady Lilian is fond of pictures?" she said. "Yes," he said; "she is devoted to art in all its forms. Yes, that little sketch will give her more pleasure than--than--I scarcely know what to say. What are women most fond of?" Stella laughed. "Diamonds, are they not?" "Are you fond of them?" he said. "I think not." "Why not?" she retorted. "Why should I not have the attributes of my sex? Yes, I am fond of diamonds. I am fond of everything that is beautiful and costly and rare. I remember once going to a ball at Florence." He looked at her. "Only to see it!" she exclaimed. "I was too young to be seen, and they took me in a gallery overlooking the great salon; and I watched the great ladies in their beautiful dresses and shining gems, and I thought that I would give all the world to be like one of them; and the thought spoiled my enjoyment. I remember coming away crying; you see it was so dark and solitary in the great gallery, and I felt so mean and insignificant." And she laughed. He was listening with earnest interest. Every word she said had a charm for him; he had never met any girl--any woman--like her, so frank and open-minded. Listening to her was like looking into a crystal lake, in which everything is revealed and all is bright and pure. "And are you wiser now?" he asked. "Not one whit!" she replied. "I should like now, less than then, to be shut up in a dark gallery and look on at others enjoying themselves. Isn't that a confession of an envious and altogether wicked disposition?" "Yes," he assented, with a strange smile barely escaping from under his tawny mustache. "I should be right in prophesying all sorts of bad endings to you." As he spoke he opened the gate for her, driving the dogs back with a crack of his whip so that she might pass first--a small thing, but characteristic of him. The painter looked up.