The artist, fascinated by the lovely scene, stood as though fearing to move, lest the vision vanish.
Then, looking up, she saw him, and stretched out her hands in a gesture of greeting, with a laugh of pleasure.
"Don't move, don't move!" he called impulsively.

"Hold the pose--please hold it! I want you just as you are!" The girl, amused at his tragic earnestness, and at the manner of his welcome, understood that the zeal of the artist had brushed aside the polite formalities of the man; and, as unaffectedly natural as she did everything, gave herself to his mood.
Dragging his easel with the blank canvas upon it across the studio, he cried out, again, "Don't move, please don't move!" and began working.

He was as one beside himself, so wholly absorbed was he in translating into the terms of color and line, the loveliness purity and truth that was expressed by the personality of the girl as she stood among the flowers.
"If I can get it! If I can only get it!" he exclaimed again and again, with a kind of savage earnestness, as he worked.
All his years of careful training, all his studiously acquired skill, all his mastery of the mechanics of his craft, came to him, now, without conscious effort--obedient to his purpose.

Here was no thoughtful straining to remember the laws of composition, and perspective, and harmony.

Here was no skillful evading of the truth he saw.