such a real pale gold. Somehow it seems even prettier than
ever to me since he praised it.

I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen stole
her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has
sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those things don't
interest me like they once did.

July 9.

The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know
he is making me look far too pretty in it, although her
persists in saying he can't do me justice. He is going to
send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says
he will make a little water-color copy for me.

He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he
reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't understand
them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is
so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my
eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He
says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I
will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I
dare say he does not mean them at all.

In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the
bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't talk at all,
but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just
seem to fly--and then the moon will come up, round and red,
over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes