ore when the picture got dry.

Whitwell, when he came, attempted a larger view of the artist's work, but
apparently more out of kindness for him than admiration of the picture.
He said he presumed you could not always get a thing like that just right
the first time, and that you had to keep trying till you did get it; but
it paid in the end. Jeff had stolen down from the house with his dog,
drawn by the fascination which one we have injured always has for us;
when Whitwell suddenly turned upon him and asked, jocularly, "What do you
think, Jeff?" the boy could only kick his dog and drive it home, as a
means of hiding his feelings.

He brought the teacher to see the picture the last Friday before the
painter went away. She was a cold-looking, austere girl, pretty enough,
with eyes that wandered away from the young man, although Jeff used all
his arts to make her feel at home in his presence. She pretended to have
merely stopped on her way up to see Mrs. Durgin, and she did not venture
any comment on the painting; but, when Westover asked something about her
school, she answered him promptly enough as to the number and ages and
sexes of the school-children. He ventured so far toward a joke with her
as to ask if she had much trouble with such a tough subject as Jeff, and
she said he could be good enough when he had a mind. If he could get over
his teasing, she said, with the air of reading him a lecture, she would
not have anything to complain of; and Jeff looked ashamed, but rather of
the praise than the blame. His humiliation seemed complete when she said,
finally: "He's a good scholar."

On the Tuesday following, Westover meant to go. It was the end of his
third week, and it had brought him into September. The weather since he
had begun to paint Lion's Head was perfect for his work; but, with the
long drought, it had grown very warm. Many trees now had flamed into
crimson on the hill-slopes; the yellowing corn in the fields gave out a
thin, dry sound as the delicate wind stirred the blades; but only the
sounds and sights were autumnal. The heat was oppressive at midday, and
at night the cold had lost its edge. There was no dew, and Mrs. Durgin
sat out with Westover on the porch while he smoked a final pipe there.
She had come to join him for some fixed purpose, apparently, and she
called to her boy, "You go to bed, Jeff," as if she wished to be alone
with Westover; the men folks were already in bed; he could hear them