Selwoode; it was carved in the woodwork, was set in the
mosaics, was chased in the tableware, was woven in the napery, was
glazed in the very china. Turn where you would, an eagle or two
confronted you; and Hunston Wyke, who is accounted something of a
wit, swore that Frederick R. Woods at Selwoode reminded him of "a
sore-headed bear who had taken up permanent quarters in an aviary."

There was one, however, who found the bear no very untractable
monster. This was the son of his brother, dead now, who dwelt at
Selwoode as heir presumptive. Frederick R. Woods's wife had died long
ago, leaving him childless. His brother's boy was an orphan; and so,
for a time, he and the grim old man lived together peaceably enough.
Indeed, Billy Woods was in those days as fine a lad as you would wish
to see, with the eyes of an inquisitive cherub and a big tow-head,
which Frederick R. Woods fell into the habit of cuffing heartily, in
order to conceal the fact that he would have burned Selwoode to the
ground rather than allow any one else to injure a hair of it.

In the consummation of time, Billy, having attained the ripe age of
eighteen, announced to his uncle that he intended to become a famous
painter. Frederick R. Woods exhorted him not to be a fool, and packed
him off to college.

Billy Woods returned on his first vacation with a fragmentary mustache
and any quantity of paint-tubes, canvases, palettes, mahl-sticks, and
such-like paraphernalia. Frederick R. Woods passed over the mustache,
and had the painters' trappings burned by the second footman. Billy
promptly purchased another lot. His uncle came upon them one morning,
rubbed his chin meditatively for a moment, and laughed for the first
time, so far as known, in his lifetime; then he tiptoed to his own
apartments, lest Billy--the lazy young rascal was still abed in the
next room--should awaken and discover his knowledge of this act of
flat rebellion.

I dare say the old gentleman was so completely accustomed to having
his own way that this unlooked-for opposition tickled him by its
novelty; or perhaps he recognised in Billy an obstinacy akin to his
own; or perhaps it was merely that he loved the boy. In any event, he
never again alluded to the subject; and it is a fact that when
Billy sent for carpenters to convert an upper room into an atelier,
Frederick R. Woods spent two long and dreary weeks in Boston in order
to remain in ignorance of the entire affair.

Billy scramb