or a good picture? Er--only want the best--only want the
best."

The painter said a few things, with pardonable heat, to the
effect--well, never mind the effect. His remarks made no impression
whatever upon Jethro.

"Er---paint the picture--paint the picture, and then we'll talk about
the price. Er--wait a minute."

He went into the house, and they heard him lumbering up the stairs.
Cynthia sat with her back to the artist, pretending to read, but
presently she turned to him.

"I'll never forgive you--never, as long as I live," she cried, "and I
won't be painted!"

"N-not to please me, Cynthy?" It was Jethro's voice.

Her look softened. She laid down the book and went up to him on the
porch and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Do you really want it so much as all that, Uncle Jethro?" she said.

"Callate I do, Cynthy," he answered. He held a bundle covered with
newspaper in his hand, he looked down at Cynthia.

He seated himself on the edge of the porch and for the moment seemed
lost in revery. Then he began slowly to unwrap the newspaper from the
bundle: there were five layers of it, but at length he disclosed a bolt
of cardinal cloth.

"Call this to mind, Cynthy?"

"Yes," she answered with a smile.

"H-how's this for the dress, Mr. Painter-man?" said Jethro, with a pride
that was ill-concealed.

The painter started up from his seat and took the material in his hands
and looked at Cynthia. He belonged to a city club where he was popular
for his knack of devising costumes, and a vision of Cynthia as the
daughter of a Doge of Venice arose before his eyes. Wonder of wonders,
the daughter of a Doge discovered in a New England hill village! The
painter seized his pad and pencil and with a few strokes, guided by
inspiration, sketched the costume then and there and held it up to
Jethro, who blinked at it in astonishment. But Jethro was suspicious of
his own sensations.

"Er--well--Godfrey--g-guess that'll do." Then came the involuntary:
"W-wouldn't a-thought you had it in you. How about it, Cynthy?" and he
held it up for her inspection.

"If you are pleased, it's all I care about, Uncle Jethro," she answered,
and then, her face suddenly flushing, "You must promise me on your honor
that nobody in Coniston shall know about it, 'Mr. Painter-man'."

After this she always called him "Mr. Painter-man,"--when she was
pleased with him.

So the cardinal cloth was come to its usefulness at last. It was
inevitable t