verybody else whenever they saw an opportunity, and when they
reached the Picknell farm, quite warm and excited, they were announced
politely by George Max as "the Out-of-Breath Club." The shy Picknells
wore their best white Sunday dresses, and the long white farm-house with
its gambrel roof seemed a delightfully shady place as the club sat still
a while to cool and rest itself and drink some lemonade. Mrs. Picknell
was a thin, bright-eyed little woman, who had the reputation of being
the best housekeeper in town. She was particularly kind to Betty
Leicester, who was after all no more a stranger to her than were some of
the others who came. It was lovely to see that Mrs. Picknell and Julia
were so proud of Mary's gift drawing, and evidently managed that she
should have time for it. Mary had begun to go to Riverport every week
for a lesson.

"She heard that Mr. Clinturn, the famous artist, was spending the summer
there, and started out by herself one day to ask him to give her
lessons," Mrs. Picknell told Betty proudly. "He said at first that he
couldn't spare the time; but I had asked Mary to take two or three of
her sketches with her, and when he saw them he said that it would be a
pleasure to help her all that he could."

"I do think this picture of the old packet-boat coming up the river is
the prettiest of all. Oh, here's Aunt Barbara; do come and see this,
Aunty!" said Betty, with great enthusiasm. "It makes me think of the
afternoon I came to you."

Miss Leicester took out her eyeglasses and looked as she was bidden. "It
is a charming little water-color," she said, with delighted surprise.
"Did you really teach yourself until this summer?"

"I only had my play paint-box until last winter," said Mary Picknell. "I
am so glad you like it, Miss Leicester;" for Miss Leicester had many
really beautiful pictures of her own, and her praise was worth having.

Then Mr. Picknell took his stick from behind the door, and led the
company of guests out across the fields to a sloping rough piece of
pasture land, with a noisy brook at the bottom, where a terrible battle
had been fought in the old French and Indian war. He read them an
account of it from Mr. Parkman's history, and told all the neighborhood
traditions of the frightened settlers, and burnt houses, and murdered
children and very old people, and the terrible march of a few captives
through the winter woods to Canada. How his own great-great grandfather
and grandmo