Another day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pine-trees which caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet.
“ There you are!” he said suddenly. “I wanted that. Now, look at them and tell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? There’s God’s burning bush for you, that burned not away.”
Miriam looked, and was frightened. But the pine trunks were wonderful to her, and distinct. He packed his box and rose. Suddenly he looked at her.
“ Why are you always sad?” he asked her.
“ Sad!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonderful brown eyes.
“ Yes,” he replied. “You are always sad.”
“ I am not—oh, not a bit!” she cried.
“ But even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness,” he persisted. “You’r
