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“Jove!” exclaimed the young man, slowly, “I believe you’re an awful trump. I will go back.”

On their return they scarcely spoke. Miss Marston divined that her companion felt ashamed and awkward, and that his momentary enthusiasm had evaporated under the influence of a long railroad ride. While they were waiting for the steamer at the Mount Desert ferry, she said, as negligently as she could, “I have telegraphed for a carriage, but you had better walk up by yourself.”

He nodded assent. “So you will supply the will for the machine, if I will grind out the ideas. But it will never succeed,” he added, gloomily. “Of course I am greatly obliged and all that, and I will stick to it until October for the sake of your interest.” In answer she smiled with an air of proprietorship.

One effect of this spree upon Clayton was that he took to landscape during the hours that he had formerly loafed. He found some quiet bits of dell with water, and planted his easel regularly every day. Sometimes he sat dreaming or reading, but he felt an unaccustomed responsibility if, when his mentor appeared with the children late in the afternoon, he hadn’t something to show for his day. She never attempted to criticise except as to the amount performed, and she soon learned enough not to measure this by the area of canvas. Although Clayton had abandoned the Magdalen in utter disgust, Miss Marston persisted in the early morning sittings. She made herself useful in preparing his coffee and in getting his canvas ready. They rarely talked. Sometimes Clayton, in a spirit of deviltry, would tease his mentor about their peculiar relationship, about herself, or, worse than all, would run himself and say very true things about his own imperfections. Then, on detecting the tears that would rise in the tired, faded eyes of the woman he tortured, he would throw himself into his work.

So the summer wore away and the brilliant September came. The unsanctified crowds flitted to the mountains or the town, and the island and sea resumed the air of free-hearted peace which was theirs by right. Clayton worked still more out of doors on marines, attempting to grasp the perplexing brilliancy that flooded everything.

“It’s no use,” he said, sadly, as he packed up his kit one evening in the last of September. “I really don’t know the first thing about color. I couldn’t exhibit a single thing I have done this entire summer.”

“What’s the real matter?” asked Miss Marston, with a desperate calm.

“Why, I have fooled about so much that I have lost a lot I learnt over there in Paris.”

“Why don’t you get–get a teacher?”

Clayton laughed ironically. “I am pretty old to start in, especially as I have just fifty dollars to my name, and a whole winter before me.”

They returned silently. The next morning Miss Marston appeared at the usual hour and made the coffee. After Clayton had finished his meagre meal, she sat down shyly and looked at him.

“You’ve never interested yourself much in my plans, but I am going to tell you some of them. I’m sick of living about like a neglected cat, and I am going to New York to–to keep boarders.” Her face grew very red. “They will make a fuss, but I am ready to break with them all.”

“So you, too, find dependence a burden?” commented Clayton, indifferently.

“You haven’t taken much pains to know me,” she replied. “And if I were a man,” she went on, with great scorn, “I would die before I would be dependent!”

“Talking about insults–but an artist isn’t a man,” remarked Clayton, philosophically smoking his pipe.

“I hate you when you’re like that,” Miss Marston remarked, with intense bitterness.

“Then you must hate me pretty often! But continue with your plans. Don’t let our little differences in temperament disturb us.”

“Well,” she continued, “I have written to some friends who spend the winters in New York, and out of them I think I shall find enough boarders–enough to keep me from starving. And the house has a large upper story with a north light.” She stopped and peeped at him furtively.