Dorian | Page 8

of
reflected sunlight on the open water spaces in the marshland.
And the scene before her was worthy of a master hand, which, of

course, Mildred Brown was not as yet. From her position in the shade
of the willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands toward the west.
Nearby, at the edge of the firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew
luxuriously, now crowned with large, glossy-brown "cat-tails." The
flats to the left were spotted by beds of white and black saleratus and
bunches of course salt grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the
sun, winding in and out among reeds, and at this hour every clear
afternoon, shining with the undimmed reflection of the burning sun.
The air was laden with salty odors of the marshes. A light afternoon
haze hung over the distance. Frogs were lazily croaking, and the
killdeer's shrill cry came plaintively to the ear. A number of cows stood
knee-deep in mud and water, round as barrels, and breathing hard, with
tails unceasingly switching away the flies.
Dorian was in the field turning the water on his lucerne patch when he
saw Mildred coming as usual down the path. He had not expected her
that afternoon as he thought the picture which she had been working on
was finished; but after adjusting the flow of water, he joined her,
relieving her of stool and easel. They then walked on together, the big
farm boy in overalls and the tall graceful girl in the enveloping
gingham.
Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days, by which time Dorian
had about gotten over his timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not
been difficult. The girl was not a bit "stuck up," and she entered easily
and naturally into the home life on the farm. She had changed
considerably since Dorian had last seen her, some two years ago. Her
face was still pale, although it seemed that a little pink was now
creeping into her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and blue; her
hair was now done up in thick shining braids. She talked freely to
Dorian and his mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent been able
to find his tongue in the presence of a girl nearly his own age.
The two stopped in the shade of the willow. He set up the easel and
opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.
"Thank you," she said to him. "Did you get through with your work in
the field?"

"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. I got through shocking the
wheat some time ago."
"Is there a good crop! I don't know much about such things, but I want
to learn." She smiled up into his ruddy face.
"The wheat is fine. The heads are well developed. I wouldn't be
surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre."
"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the
palette.
Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the
canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.
"I thought you finished that picture yesterday," he said.
"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another hour
on it. The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I want to
put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can."
The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where
he could see her at work. He thought it wonderful to be able thus to
make a beautiful picture out of such a commonplace thing as a saleratus
swamp. But then, he was beginning to think that this girl was capable
of endless wonders. He had met no other girl just like her, so young and
so beautiful, and yet so talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet
so simple in manner of her life; so high born and bred, and yet so
companionable with those of humbler station.
The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red on to her palette. She gazed
for a moment at the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she asked:
"Do you think I dare put a little more red in my picture?"
"Dare?" he repeated.
The young man followed the pointing finger of the girl into the flaming
depths of the sky, then came and leaned carefully over the painting.

"Tell me which is redder, the real or the picture?" she asked.
Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The sky is redder," be
decided.
"And yet if I make my picture as red as the sky naturally is, many
people would say that it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway." Then