Read Online Sophie and the Rising Sun by Augusta Trobaugh - Free Book Online Page A

morning,” he answered, and moved forward as if the painting he would do were the only thing that mattered. And once again, he worked on the painting of Sophie as the magical Crane-Wife in the old fable.
    After a few silent hours, Sophie gathered her paints and said, “I have to leave now. I hope you will come again next Sunday.”
    Mr. Oto stood and bowed deeply, all the time placing himself between Sophie and his painting of her.
    “I will come,” he answered simply.
    Walking back home that day, Sophie carried his presence with her, somehow. So that she could almost feel him walking along beside her, saying nothing. But still, his clean-earth smell was in her nostrils and the sound of his quiet breathing, in her ears.
    How strange! she thought.
    The next Sunday, they met again and painted silently for hours, after which Sophie leaned back a little and turned her head ever-so-slightly toward Mr. Oto. It was a gesture—a new gesture—one that both of them would be able to accept as a signal for the end of painting and the beginning of speaking. For Sophie had decided that she no longer had to be the least bit concerned that he would intrude upon her reveries by talking too much, and once that concern was put to rest—strangely enough, it left a quiet space inside of her that she was ready to fill with his voice.
    On that particular Sunday, however, Mr. Oto was deeply engrossed in creating the iris of the great crane, an eye that must be dark but that should not be so distinct as to belie the dreamy, almost illusionary quality of the crane. Black, he finally decided, was too abrupt. And gray would not convey the depth of the eye of such a symbol of love and happiness. Finally, he touched together with the brush a bit of the red and some of the blue, and the resulting deep purple of the crane’s eye was so perfectly the effect he wanted that he almost gasped.
    “You must be very pleased with your painting,” Sophie offered, and Mr. Oto jumped a little, as if he had forgotten for a moment that she was there. And he could hardly tear his eyes away from the soft, deeply passionate gaze of the crane.
    “I am pleased, yes,” he finally answered.
    “May I see?” Sophie asked innocently.
    “Oh, no!” The abject horror in his response surprised her “I mean...” He seemed to be as surprised as Sophie at the intensity of his words, and he glanced at her with deep apology in his eyes. Hastily, he blew upon the great, purple-hued eye to dry it thoroughly before he closed the art tablet.
    “Please,” he began again. “It’s not worthy.”
    “But I’m sure it’s very good,” Sophie said, somehow touched by his obvious embarrassment.
    “Please, no.” Mr. Oto repeated those words and then no more. But his dark eyes were fully upon Sophie, unblinking and with something in them—a burning sincerity, or something. So that she pressed the matter no further. But she didn’t feel offended—not in the least. She, who valued privacy, also respected the same value in him.
    Once again, when she arose to leave, he stood up also and bowed low before her, a gesture that both embarrassed and pleased her.
    “I’m sorry about not sharing my painting with you,” he said.
    “It’s perfectly all right,” she assured him. “After all, it’s your painting, to do with as you please. And I’m sure it’s quite lovely.’’
    “Thank you,” he said. And he did not add, Lovely—but only because you are lovely.
    Throughout the golden days of November, they met in that quiet and gentle way every Sunday, and in those few weeks, Sophie and Mr. Oto accepted the new routine their friendship had brought. Sophie passed by Miss Anne’s house nearly every day, she and Mr. Oto spoke their quiet greetings, and on Sunday mornings, they painted together by the deep and slow-moving river.
    At first, they had spoken very few words to each other. But the silence between them was sweet—filled with the distant cries of gulls and the