boy he brought him up to a sitting position, and at the
sight of the ashen face and white, turned-back eyeballs he sat down
hastily, drawing the young head upon his shoulder with a rough tenderness.
"Why, so lads look under their first fire, when they die of fear. What
frights you so?"

Nathaniel opened great solemn eyes upon him. "I suppose it is the
conviction of sin. That is what they call it."

For an instant the old man's face was blank with astonishment, and then it
wrinkled into a thousand lines of mirth. He began to laugh as though he
would never stop. Nathaniel had never heard anyone laugh like that. He
clutched at the old man.

"How dare you laugh!"

The other wiped his eyes and rocked to and fro, "I laugh--who would
not--that such a witless baby should talk of his sin. You know not what
sin is, you silly innocent!"

At the kindliness of the tone an aching knot in the boy's throat relaxed.
He began to talk hurriedly, in a desperate whisper, his hands like little
birds' claws gripping the other's great gauntleted fist. "You do not know
how wicked I am--I am so wholly forward the wonder is the devil does not
take me at once. I live only in what my father calls the lust of the eye.
I--I would rather look at a haw-tree in bloom than meditate on the
Almighty!" He brought out this awful confession with a gasp at its
enormity, but hurried on to a yet more terrible climax. "I cannot be
righteous, but many times there are those who cannot--but oh, worse than
that, I cannot even _wish_ to be! I can only wish to be a painter."

At this unexpected ending the old man gave an exclamation of extreme
amazement.

"But, boy, lad, what's your name? However did you learn that there are
painters in the world, here in this prison-house of sanctity?"

Nathaniel had burrowed into his protector's coat as though hiding from the
imminent wrath of God. He now spoke in muffled tones. "Two years ago, when
I was but a little child, there came a man to our town, a Frenchman, they
said, and his horse fell lame, and he stopped two days at my Uncle
Elzaphan's. My Uncle Elzaphan asked him what business did he in the world,
and he said he put down on cloth or paper with brushes and colors all the
fair and comely things he saw. And he showed a piece of paper with on it
painted the row of willows along our brook. I sat in the chimney-corner
and no one heeded me. I saw--oh, then I _knew_! I have no paint, but ever
since I have made picture