Then she caught sight of my umbrella.
She came straight toward me with that slowing of pace as she approached
the nearer, her curiosity getting the better of her timidity--quite as a
fawn or a little calf would have done, attracted by some bit of color or
movement which was new to it. The brown madder dress I now saw was
dotted with little spots of red, like sprays of berries; the
yellow-ochre hat was wound with a blue ribbon, and tied with a bow on
one side. I could see, too, that she wore slippers, and that her hair
was platted in two pig-tails, and hung down her back, the ends fastened
with a ribbon that matched the one on her hat.
She stood quite still, her face perfectly impassive, her little hands
clasped together, the brim of her hat shading her eyes, which looked
straight at my canvas.
I gave no sign of her presence. It is dangerous to break down the
reserve of silence, which is often the only barrier between an out-door
painter and the crowds that surround him. Persisted in, it not only
compels their respect, even to the lowering of their voices and the
tip-toeing in and out of the circle about you, but shortens the time of
their visits, a consummation devoutly to be wished.
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