"Edward Sinton. Now, Mr Jefferson, in what position do you intend to
sit?"

"Jest as I'm settin' now."

"Then you must sit still, at least for a few minutes at a time, because
I cannot sketch you while you keep rocking so."

"No! now that's a pity, for I never sits no other way when I'm to home;
an' it would look more nat'ral an' raal like to the old 'ooman if I was
drawd rockin'. However, fire away, and sing out when ye want me to
stop. Mind ye, put in the whole o' me. None o' yer half-lengths. I
never goes in for half-lengths. I always goes the whole length, an' a
leetle shave more. See that ye don't forget the mole on the side o' my
nose. My poor dear old mother wouldn't believe it was me if the mole
warn't there as big as life, with the two hairs in the middle of it.
An' I say, mister, mind that I hate flatterers, so don't flatter me no
how."

"It wouldn't be easy to do so," thought Ned, as he plied his pencil, but
he did not deem it advisable to give expression to his thoughts.

"Now, then, sit still for a moment," said Ned.

The Yankee instantly let the front legs of his chair come to the ground
with a bang, and gazed right before him with that intensely-grave,
cataleptic stare that is wont to overspread the countenances of men when
they are being photographed.

Ned laughed inwardly, and proceeded with his work in silence.

"I guess there's Sam at the door," said Abel Jefferson, blowing a cloud
of smoke from his mouth that might have made a small cannon envious.

The door flew open as he spoke, and Sam Scott, the trader, strode into
the hut. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a good-humoured but
intensely impudent expression of countenance, and tanned to a rich dark
brown by constant exposure to the weather in the prosecution of his
arduous calling.

"Halloo! stranger, what air _you_ up to!" inquired Sam, sitting down on
the bench behind Ned, and looking over his shoulder.

Ned might perhaps have replied to this question despite its
unceremoniousness, had not the Yankee followed it up by spitting over
his shoulder into the fire-place. As it was, he kept silence, and went
on with his work.

"Why I _do_ declare," continued Sam, "if you ain't _photogged_ here as
small as life, mole an' all, like nothin'. I say, stranger, ain't you a
Britisher?"

Sam again followed up his question with a shot at the fire-place.

"Yes," answered Ned, somewhat angrily, "and I am so much of a Britisher,
t