last pin, became hysterical over her
handiwork, Millicent Skinner stared openmouthed, words having failed her
for once, and Jethro thrust his hands in his pockets in a quiet ecstasy
of approbation.

"A-always had a notion that cloth'd set you off, Cynthy," said he,
"er--next time I go to the state capital you come along--g-guess it'll
surprise 'em some."

"I guess it would, Uncle Jethro," said Cynthia, laughing.

Jethro postponed two political trips of no small importance to be present
at the painting of that picture, and he would sit silently by the hour in
a corner of the shed watching every stroke of the brush. Never stood
Doge's daughter in her jewels and seed pearls amidst stranger
surroundings,--the beam, and the centre post around which the old white
horse had toiled in times gone by, and all the piled-up, disused
machinery of forgotten days. And never was Venetian lady more unconscious
of her environment than Cynthia.

The portrait was of the head and shoulders alone, and when he had given
it the last touch, the painter knew that, for once in his life, he had
done a good thing. Never before; perhaps, had the fire of such
inspiration been given him. Jethro, who expressed himself in terms (for
him) of great enthusiasm, was for going to Boston immediately to purchase
a frame commensurate with the importance of such a work of art, but the
artist had his own views on that subject and sent to New York for this
also.

The day after the completion of the picture a rugged figure in rawhide
boots and coonskin cap approached Chester Perkins's house, knocked at the
door, and inquired for the "Painter-man." It was Jethro. The
"Painter-man" forthwith went out into the rain behind the shed, where a
somewhat curious colloquy took place.

"G-guess I'm willin' to pay you full as much as it's worth," said Jethro,
producing a cowhide wallet. "Er--what figure do you allow it comes to
with the frame?"

The artist was past taking offence, since Jethro had long ago become for
him an engrossing study.

"I will send you the bill for the frame, Mr. Bass," he said, "the picture
belongs to Cynthia."

"Earn your livin' by paintin', don't you--earn your livin'?"

The painter smiled a little bitterly.

"No," he said, "if I did, I shouldn't be--alive. Mr. Bass, have you ever
done anything the pleasure of doing which was pay enough, and to spare?"

Jethro looked at him, and something very like admiration came into the
face that