Conkling stood arrested by the miraculous echo of loveliness which the living face seemed to catch from the painted face so close above it. It made him think of a woodland pool overhung by an April twilight. Then his eye wandered on to the Quaker gray of her gown. It made a frame too dull for the buoyant ardencies of her thin young body. And it came home to him how soon, now, that dullness could be done away with.
"All this reminds me of what brought me here under your roof," he went on, doing his best to key down to her own quietness of tone. "You've asked me to tell you what your pictures are worth. But all I'm going to do is to try to give you an idea of what this one is worth. I don't want to exaggerate, but I'd say this one canvas is worth your farm, and your neighbors' farms, and every farm and all they hold between here and Weston!"
"You mean to an artist?" she ventured, with the color once more slipping away from her face,
"No, I mean to a dealer, to a collector,
