elise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her voice softened.

"You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't."

Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of wind was fluttering the pages.

"What is that?" elise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up flowers?" Her voice was hard again.

Miss Hartwell took up the open book.

"Perhaps you would like to see these. They may atone for my other wrong-doing."

elise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity or opportunity seemed to demand; but elise forestalled her.

"This is beautiful; only----" She paused.

Miss Hartwell looked up.

"Only what?"

elise shook her head impatiently.

"You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think of the ones you tore to pieces."

Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand.

"Let me take them for a moment, please."

elise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the offending names were removed.

"I think that is better."

elise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the reception of the sketches.

"Don't you ever get mad?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

"That would have made me awfully mad."

"But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The flowers are."

"That wouldn't make any difference with me. I'd get mad before I thought, and then I'd stick to it anyway."

"That is not right."

elise looked somewhat rebuked, but more puzzled.

"How old are you?" she asked.

This was too much. Miss Hartwell could not conceal her astonishment. She recovered quickly and answered, with a smile:

"I was twenty-five, last February."

elise resumed her examination of the water-colours. There was a look of satisfaction on her face.

"Oh, well, perhaps when I get to be as old as that I won't get mad, either. How did you learn to make flowers?" Her attention was fixed all the time on the colours.

"I took lessons."

"Is it very hard to learn?"

"Not very, for some people. Would you like to have me teach you?"

elise's face was flushed and eager.

"Will you teach me?" she asked.

"Certainly. It will give me great pleasure."

"When can you begin?"

"Now, if you like."

Miss Hartwell had taste, and she had been under excellent instruction.

Her efforts had been praised and herself highly commended; but no sweeter incense had ever been burned under her nostrils than the intense absorption of her first pupil. It was not genius; it was love, pure and simple. There was no element of self-consciousness, only a wild love of beauty and a longing to give it expression. Nominally, at least, Miss Hartwell was the instructor and elise the pupil; but that did not prevent her learning some lessons which her other instructors had failed to suggest. The comments of elise on the habits and peculiarities of every plant and flower that they attempted demonstrated to Miss Hartwell that the real science of botany was not wholly dependent upon forceps and scalpel. Another demonstration was to the effect that the first and hardest step in drawing, if not in painting, was a clear-cut conception of the object to be delineated. elise knew her object. From the first downy ball that pushed its way into the opening spring, to the unfolding of the perfect flower, every shade and variety of colour elise knew to perfection.

Miss Hartwell's lessons had been purely mechanical. She had brought to them determination and faithful application; but unconsciously the object had been herself, not her subject, and her work showed it. elise was no genius; but she was possessed of some of its most imperative essentials, an utter oblivion of self and an abounding love of her subjects. Miss Hartwell was astonished at her easy grasp of details which had come to her after much laborious effort.

They were aroused by the click of iron shoes on the stony trail as Firmstone rode toward them.

He was delighted that his first attempt at bringing elise in contact with Miss Hartwell had been so successful. There was a flush of pleasure on Miss Hartwell's face.

"I believe you knew I would not be alone. Why didn't you tell me about elise?"

"Oh, it's better to let each make his own discoveries, especially if they are pleasant."

Firmstone looked at the paint-smudged fingers of elise. "You refused my help in square root, and are taking lessons in painting from Miss Hartwell."

"Miss who?"

Firmstone was astonished at the change in the girl's face.

"Miss Hartwell," he answered.

elise rose quickly to her feet. Brush and pencil fell unheeded from her lap.

"Are you related to that Hartwell at the mill?" she demanded.

"He is my brother."