She looked at him with her great, blue eyes sincerely troubled. "And must one be _known_--to be great?" she asked. "Might not an artist be great and still be _unknown_? Or, might not one who was really very, very"--again she seemed to search for a word and as she found it, smiled--"very _small_, be known all over the world? The newspapers make some really bad people famous, sometimes, don't they? No, no, you are joking. You do not really think that being known to the world and greatness are the same." The man, studying her closely, saw that she was speaking her thoughts as openly as a child. Experimentally, he said, "If putting what you feel into your work is greatness, then _you_ are a great artist, for your music does make one feel as though it came from the mountains, themselves." She was frankly pleased, and cried intimately, "Oh! do you like my music? I so wanted you to." It did not occur to her to ask when he had heard her music. It did not occur to him to explain. They, neither of them, thought to remember that they had not been introduced. They really should have pretended that they did not know each other. "Sometimes," she continued with winsome confidence, "I think, myself, that I am really a great violinist--and then, again,"--she added wistfully,--"I know that I am not. But I am sure that I wouldn't like to be famous, at all." He laughed. "Fame doesn't seem to matter so much, does it; when one is up here in the hills and the canyon gates are closed." She echoed his laughter with quick delight. "Did you see that? Did you see those great doors open to let you in, and then close again behind you as if to shut the world outside? But of course you would. Any one who could do that"--she pointed to the canvas--"would not fail to see the canyon gates." With her eyes again upon the picture, she seemed once more to forget the presence of the painter. Watching her face,--that betrayed her every passing thought and emotion as an untroubled pool mirrors the flowers that grow on its banks or the song-bird that pauses to drink,--the artist--to change her mood--said, "You _love_ the mountains, don't you?" She turned her face toward him, again, as she answered simply, "Yes, I love the mountains." "If you were a painter,"--he smiled,--"you would paint them, wouldn't you?" "I don't know that I would,"--she answered thoughtfully,--"but I would try to get the mountains into my picture, whatever it was. I wonder if you know what I mean?" "Yes," he answered, "I think I know what you mean; and it is a beautiful thought. You wouldn't paint portraits, would you?"