Far down the orchard, standing sketching a picturesque old tree, was the
artist, Allan Lyster. He looked up as the sound of light footsteps
rustled in the grass. When he saw who was coming he flung down his
pencils and advanced, hat in hand.
There was something graceful and poetical, after all, in the way in
which he went up to Miss Arleigh and knelt lightly on one knee.
"I would kiss the hem of your robe if I dared," he said. "How am I to
thank you?"
Then he sprang up and took his sister's hand in his. He allowed no time
for confusion and embarrassment--he was too clever for that.
"How am I to thank you, Miss Arleigh?" he said. "If the sun had fallen
from the heavens, I could not have felt, more surprise than your
kindness has caused me. My sister tells me you are good enough not to be
angry at my presumption."
Miss Lyster laughed.
"I think, Allan," she said, "that I shall leave you to listen to Miss
Arleigh's lecture alone. She will be able to say harder words to you if
I am not by to listen. I will see if I can finish your picture."
She walked over to the tree where paper and pencils lay, leaving them
alone, and though she was a woman, and young--though she knew that she
was most foully betraying a girl whose youth and innocence might have
pleaded for her, she had not even a passing thought of pity. "Let Allan
win the fortune if he can. He will make better use of it than she
could."
"You are so good to me," murmured the young artist, his dark eyes
flashing keenly for one-half a minute over that beautiful face.
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