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embarrassed him. "It was just a little thing, but somehow it stuck; and your picture brought it back."
"Won't you tell it to me?" she asked, eagerly.
"I'm afraid it won't sound like much," he answered, "but
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"The gold of the April sunshine,
The sweet of the April breeze,
The bluebird's note in yonder wood,
The droning of the bees;
The far hills' distant outline—
All tender blues and grays
The April joy of the blossoming world,
And the charm of April days."
"Thank you," she said. "It is very sweet. And—and my canvas really made you think of those lines?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad; you—you've encouraged me so much! I was feeling
