at it was
impossible to change my nature. Then I urged all the old arguments over
again, and wound up by saying that even if I were to become possessor of
the whole of his business to-morrow, I would sell it off, take to
painting as a profession, and become the patron of aspiring young
painters from that date forward!

"To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such a
towering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not then
and there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, I
declined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presence
for ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. I
thought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutability
of human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street was
not made of asbestos, and that an _occasional_ fire occurred there! But
this made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that I
would, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to the
office at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him to
such a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should `_throw my
palette and brushes into the fire_!' Flesh and blood, you know, could
not do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the country
to relieve my feelings. There I fell in with _such_ a splendid `bit;' a
sluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water with
overhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down and
sketched, and forgot my woes, and _rejoiced_ in the fresh air and
delightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and _hated_ to think of
Tooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to London
next day, and, _voila_! here I am!"

"Don't you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?"

"No, I don't think it. On the contrary, I know it won't. He is a good
man; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued."

"Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwing
your palette and brushes into--"

"My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for your
sympathy."

"And you have it, Fred," cried Barret earnestly. "But have you really
such an unconquerable love for painting?"

"Have I really!" echoed Fred. "Do you think I would have come to such a
pass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longs
for the life of a painter, for the free fresh air o