cough now and then.

"Mr. Westover," the woman began, even as she swept her skirts forward
before she sat down, "I want to ask you whether you would let that
picture of yours go on part board? I'll give you back just as much as you
say of this money."

He looked round and saw that she had in the hand dropped in her lap the
bills he had given her after supper.

"Why, I couldn't, very well, Mrs. Durgin--" he began.

"I presume you'll think I'm foolish," she pursued. "But I do want that
picture; I don't know when I've ever wanted a thing more. It's just like
Lion's Head, the way I've seen it, day in and day out, every summer since
I come here thirty-five years ago; it's beautiful!"

"Mrs. Durgin," said Westover, "you gratify me more than I can tell you. I
wish--I wish I could let you have the picture. I--I don't know what to
say--"

"Why don't you let me have it, then? If we ever had to go away from
here--if anything happened to us--it's the one thing I should want to
keep and take with me. There! That's the way I feel about it. I can't
explain; but I do wish you'd let me have it."

Some emotion which did not utter itself in the desire she expressed made
her voice shake in the words. She held out the bank-notes to him, and
they rustled with the tremor of her hand.

"Mrs. Durgin, I suppose I shall have to be frank with you, and you
mustn't feel hurt. I have to live by my work, and I have to get as much
as I can for it--"

"That's what I say. I don't want to beat you down on it. I'll give you
whatever you think is right. It's my money, and my husband feels just as
I do about it," she urged.

"You don't quite understand," he said, gently. "I expect to have an
exhibition of my pictures in Boston this fall, and I hope to get two or
three hundred dollars for Lion's Head."

"I've been a proper fool," cried the woman, and she drew in a long
breath.

"Oh, don't mind," he begged; "it's all right. I've never had any offer
for a picture that I'd rather take than yours. I know the thing can't be
altogether bad after what you've said. And I'll tell you what! I'll have
it photographed when I get to Boston, and I'll send you a photograph of
it."

"How much will that be?" Mrs. Durgin asked, as if taught caution by her
offer for the painting.

"Nothing. And if you'll accept it and hang it up here somewhere I shall
be very glad."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Durgin, and the meekness, the wounded pride, he
fancied in her, touc