a touch of burnt umber and again considered the effect.

"Confound it! that's all wrong," he muttered.

"It's blue," said Paul.

The artist started, twisted his head, and for the first time became
conscious of the ragamuffin's presence. "Oh, you see it blue, do you?"
He smiled ironically.

"Ay," said Paul, with pointing finger. "Look at it. It's not brown,
anyhow. Yon's black inside and blue outside."

The young man shaded his brow and gazed intently. Brilliant sunshine
plays the deuce with tones. "My hat!" cried he, "you're right. It was
this confounded yellow of the side of the house." He put in a few hasty
strokes. "That better?"

"Ay," said Paul.

The artist laid down his brush, and swung round on his box, clasping
knees. "How the devil did you manage to see that when I didn't?"

"Dun-no!" said Paul.

The young man stretched himself and lit a cigarette.

"What are yo' doing that for, mister?" Paul asked seriously.

"That?"

"Ay," said Paul. "You mun have a reason."

"You're a queer infant," laughed the artist. "Do you really want to
know?"

"I've asked yo'," said Paul.

"Well, if you're anxious to know, I'm an architect on a holiday, and
I'm sketching any old thing I come across. I don't pretend to be a
painter, my youthful virtuoso, and that's why I go wrong sometimes on
colour. Do you know what an architect is?"

"No," said Paul, eagerly. "What is it?"

He had been baffled by the meaning of the word, which he had seen all
his life, inscribed on a brass plate in the Bludston High Street: "E.
Thomson, Architect & Surveyor." It had seemed to him odd, cryptically
fascinating.

The young man laughed and explained; Paul listened seriously. Another
mystery was solved. He had often wondered how the bricklayers knew
where to lay the bricks. He grasped the idea that they were but
instruments carrying out the conception of the architect's brain. "I'd
like to be an architect," he said.

"Would you?" After a pause the young man continued: "Anyhow, you can
earn a shilling. Just sit down there and let me make a sketch of you."

"What for?" asked Paul.

"Because you're a picturesque person. Now, I suppose you'll be asking
me what's the meaning of picturesque?"

"Nay," said Paul. "I know. Yo' see it in books. 'Th' owd grey tower
stood out picturesque against the crimson sky.'"

"Hullo! you're a literary gent," said the young man.

"Ay," replied Paul proudly. He was greatly attracted towards this n