ght pouring on the steep
fell-side, the sharp black shadows thrown by wall and tree, the
brilliance of the snow along the topmost ridge. He raced along,
casting the Morrisons out of his thoughts, forgetting everything
but the joy of atmosphere and light--the pleasure of his physical
strength. Near one of the highest crags he came upon a shepherd-boy
and his dog collecting some sheep. The collie ran hither and thither
with the marvellous shrewdness of his breed, circling, heading,
driving; the stampede of the sheep, as they fled before him, could be
heard along the fell. The sun played upon the flock, turning its dirty
grey to white, caught the little figure of the shepherd-boy, as he
stood shouting and waving, or glittered on the foaming stream beside
him. Purple shadows bathed the fell beyond--and on its bosom the
rustic scene emerged--a winter idyl.

Fenwick sat down upon a rock, ransacked his pockets for sketch-book
and paints, and began to sketch. When he had made his 'note,' he sat
lost a while in the pleasure of his own growing skill and sharpening
perceptions, and dreaming of future 'subjects.' A series of
'Westmoreland months,' illustrating the seasons among the fells and
the life of the dalesmen, ran through his mind. Nature appeared to his
exultant sense as a vast treasure-house stored for him only--a mine
inexhaustible offered to his craftsman's hand. For him the sweeping
hues, the intricate broideries--green or russet, red or purple--of
this winter world!--for him the delicacy of the snow, the pale azure
of the sky, the cloud-shadows, the white becks, the winding river in
the valley floor, the purple crags, the lovely accents of light and
shade, the hints of composition that wooed his eager eye. Who was it
that said 'Composition is the art of preserving the accidental look'?
Clever fellow!--there was the right thing said, for once! And so he
slipped into a reverie, which was really one of those moments--plastic
and fruitful--by which the artist makes good his kinship with 'the
great of old,' his right to his own place in the unending chain.

Strange!--from that poverty of feeling in which he had considered
the Morrison tragedy--from his growing barrenness of heart towards
Phoebe--he had sprung at a bound into this ecstasy, this expansion of
the whole man. It brought with it a vivid memory of the pictures he
was engaged upon. By the time he turned homeward, and the light was
failing, he was counting the day