CHAPTER XVIII.
Sibyl Andres and the Butterflies On the following day, the artist was putting away his things, at the close of the afternoon's work, when the girl appeared.
The long, slanting bars of sunshine and the deepening shadows marked the lateness of the hour.

As he bent over his paint-box, the man was thinking with regret that she would not come--that, perhaps, she would never come.
And at the thought that he might not see her again, an odd fear gripped his heart.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, musical laugh; and he sprang to his feet, to search the glade with careful eyes.
"Come out," he cried, as though adjuring an invisible spirit.

"I know you are here; come out." With another laugh, she stepped from behind the trunk of one of the largest trees, within a few feet of where he stood.

As she went toward him, she carried in her outstretched hands a graceful basket, woven of sycamore leaves and ferns, and filled with the ripest sweetest blackberries.