But she continued to apologise, and he to beg her not to do so. The voice in which she conveyed her protestations, however, became more and more feeble. The hot sun was beating down on her head as she stood, and she was conscious of an overpowering faintness and desire to sink down on the desecrated bed of foxgloves and rest; but she felt also very strongly that she must resist and conquer the impulse until she could remove herself to a place beyond the artist’s proximity. “You seem faint,” she heard him saying, and his voice, grown gentle now, seemed to come from miles away. “Sit down on this!” and he hastily emptied a bulgy canvas sketching bag and laid it down beside her. “Now shall I get you some water?” She was so really ill that she could only nod in response to his offer. “I have no glass,” he said; “but this little thing will be quite clean when I have washed it out.” He took the japanned tin attached to his water-colour paint box, and ran down to the river to fill it. She watched him. “How nice of him!” she thought to herself; “and I was just thinking him such a bear; and I spoiled his poor foxglove; and I am so hungry!” There were several crusts of dry bread lying about which he had thrown out of the canvas bag--how dry she dared not think, but she put out her hand and nibbled at one. “Good Heavens, you must not eat that!” he said, when he came back, raising his eyebrows. His eyes were quite dark, though his hair was grey. “Mrs. Watson put some sandwiches into my bag this morning, but I regret to say I ate them all half-an-hour ago! I generally take them back with me untouched. How unlucky!” He raised his voice and called, and after a time a lubberly boy came slouching up. “Now, Billy Gale, where the devil have you been? What is the good of you? Go up to the cottage and ask them for a glass of milk and a slice of bread-and-butter--on a plate, mind!” The boy was off, and he turned to Mrs. Elles, who had drunk her cool, pure river water, and was looking less pale. “You are very kind to me,” she murmured, “and I know how you must hate being interrupted! Please do go on painting now as if I were not here. I won’t say a single word, and, as soon as I am a little rested, I will go away and leave you in peace.... I am very fond of art!” she added, inconsequently. “I used to do a little myself.” But the artist seemed to have taken her at her word, and she did not think he could have heard her, as he sat complacently dabbling his brush in the little water-tin, now restored to its proper use, and then put it to his lips, and then touched his paper with it. There was no colour in the brush, and no particular effect upon the paper, so it seemed to the ignorant tyro at his side. In spite of her promise of silence, she could not resist pointing this out to him. “Don’t be too sure,” he said; “every touch counts.” “I do wish I might have a look at it!”