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In the evening of the next day, about half an hour before supper, June climbed the attic stairs and knocked boldly upon the studio door.

"Come in," a gentle voice invited her.

William, a lump of cotton wool in one hand, the mysterious bottle in the other, was absorbed in the task of looking for a windmill. He had to own, the queer fellow, that so far success had not crowned his search.

"I should think not," said June, uncompromisingly.

"But there are the trees." William took up a knife and laid the point to a canvas that was already several tones lighter than of yore.

There was a pause while June screwed up her eyes like an expert; and in consequence she had reluctantly to admit that they were unmistakable trees.

"And now we are coming to the water, don't you see?" said the young man in a tone of quiet ecstasy.

"Where's the water?"

With a lover's delicacy, William ran the point of the knife along the canvas.

"Don't you see it, Miss June?" There was a thrill in the low voice.

"Why, yes," said June. "It's water, right enough." No use trying now not to be impressed. "Now I call that rather clever!"

"I knew it was there. And if you know a thing's there, sooner or later you are bound to find it. Do you