"No. You look like a new man." "I am a new man, grannie." He gave the kind hand a little tight grasp, and left her. Peter was coming with the glass of water, and Peter, too, had a morning light on his face, only his was the look of the maker who sees the vision of fulfillment. "Good picture, Pete," said Osmond. Peter nodded in entire acquiescence. "I don't know what grannie looks like," he said. He was gazing into the glass of water, as if it were a crystal and he could find the answer there. "I've been trying to think. Like a baby--with a sort of innocence--like a fate, a kind one,--like the earth goddess. If I've put in all I see, it's a corker." "It's the mother look," said Osmond. "But it is a corker, safe enough." They parted with a nod, but Peter stopped. "Hear that!" he said. Rose was singing. The song began so triumphantly, with such dash and splendor, that it was almost like improvising. Osmond felt it like a call. He went on to the house, and Peter, after that moment of listening, also kept on the way that took him to his work. He, too, walked with quickened step, and there was light in his eyes. All the vibrations of his being quickened to the song; but he was thinking what a stunning world it was to have such things in it: paint and canvas and disturbing songs and broken hearts. The song ceased suddenly. He knew why. Osmond had gone into the room and Rose had met him. Peter sighed. Then he laughed, took grannie's empty glass from her, and sat down to work. "It's a funny world, grannie," he remarked. Grannie smiled at him. She understood him also, though he was not in her heart as Osmond was. "You like your work, don't you, Peter?" she remarked. "It's just the right thing for you." Peter plunged at it. "It's the best thing out," he affirmed. "It's the top bubble on the biggest wave." Then he too, because the song had ceased, began one on his own account, with an inward rueful apology to his broken heart. For the song should have been a sad one, but Peter could not paint when the vibrations lagged, and so he made it gay. Osmond followed the voice, and met Rose in the sitting-room, where she stood waiting for him. She wore a morning gown of demure dimity, with a little ruffle about her singing throat. When she saw him, she laughed, for no reason. Then she blushed. For Osmond was not the same. He came up to her and took her hands. "You don't look like a goddess," he said. They were smiling at each other out of an equal hope. "I'm not a goddess. I'm just girl." "Not a terrible Parisian?" She looked down at her dress, that had wrought the simplicity. "I put it on for you," she said. "You didn't like my chiffons that other night." "How did you know I should come?" "You knew it. Why shouldn't I know it? Are the wires down?" Then, by one impulse, they began to walk back and forth through the room, hand in hand, like children. "You go next week," he said, although he knew she did. "Yes." "When do you come back?"