So freely, so surely, he worked, he scarcely knew he painted.

Forgetting self, as he was unconscious of his technic, he worked as the birds sing, as the bees toil, as the deer runs.

Under his hand, his picture grew and blossomed as the roses, themselves, among which the beautiful girl stood.
Day after day, at that same hour, Sibyl Andres came singing through the orange grove, to stand in the golden sunlight among the roses, with hands outstretched in greeting.

Every day, Aaron King waited her coming--sitting before his easel, palette and brush in hand.

Each day, he worked as he had worked that first day--with no thought for anything save for his picture.
In the mornings, he walked with Conrad Lagrange or, sometimes, worked with Sibyl in the garden.