"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed.
"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise
discrimination," said Wynnie.
"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and head,
to be able to paint good pictures."
"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way we
were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing."
"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked.
"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were
sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff."
"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could
look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you."
"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us."
"Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to
bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are classed
under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But what sort of a
rock was it you were trying to draw?"
"A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of the
ridges that project from the shore into the water.
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