The colors of the sky had, however, defied his palette, and after one or two futile attempts to transfer to his canvas a few of the gorgeous tints that illumed the landscape, he gave up the task in despair, and resigned himself to the _dolce far niente_ of absolute enjoyment.

From his half pleasing, half melancholy reverie the voice of the unknown maiden had startled him, and now,--now she had left him to resume it if he chose,--left him, in chill displeasure, with a cold yet brilliant flash of something like scorn in her wonderful eyes.
Since her departure the scenery, in some unaccountable way, seemed less attractive to him, the songs of the birds, who were all awake, fell on inattentive ears; he was haunted by her face and voice, and he was, moreover, a little out of humor with himself for having been such a blunderer as to give her offense and thus leave an unfavorable impression on her mind.
"I suppose I _was_ rude," he considered after a while.

"She seemed to think so, at any rate.

By Jove! what a crushing look she gave me! A peasant?
Not she! If she had said she was an empress I shouldn't have been much surprised.

But a mere common peasant, with that regal figure and those white hands! I don't believe it.