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 her canvas this morning while the bright weather continued, but now she was tempted to turn back. She did not feel like talking "shop" with the unknown painter. She wondered at the chance which had led him to this particular spot. Perhaps, though, he had painted here before. His back was toward her and she could not catch even a glimpse of his face. She was certain it was not Mr. Taft, nor Mr. Link, nor yet Mr. Simpkins. But one or two new-comers had been rumored of at the Inn, and perhaps the usurper was one of these. She set down her paint-box to rest her arm and untied the strings of her sun-bonnet to allow the little breeze to reach her flushed cheeks.

But what an uninteresting view he had selected! He had placed his easel where only a shadowed group of