shman; his name was Wilkins. He is the
only human being I ever disliked so that it was hard to speak to him. His
brother, too, the agent who had charge of all Mr. Maynard's business, was
almost as disagreeable as he. They both looked like bloated frogs; their
wide, shapeless mouths, flat noses, and prominent eyes, made me shudder
when I looked at them.

"Little Patrick soon grew fond of Nat, as everybody did who came into
close contact with him; and he used often to stay at our house till late
at night, hearing Nat's stories, and watching him draw pictures on the
blackboard. One of the things I had kept was a great blackboard which papa
had made for him. It was mounted on a stout standard, so that it could be
swung close in front of his chair or wagon, and he would lie there and
draw for hours together. Some of the pictures he drew were so beautiful I
could not bear to have them rubbed out. It seemed almost like killing
things that were alive. Whenever I dared to spend a penny for anything not
absolutely needful, I always bought a sheet of drawing-paper or a crayon;
for Nat would rather have them than anything else in the world--even than
a book--unless the book had pictures.

"One night, when I went home, I found him sitting up very straight in his
wagon, with his cheeks crimson with excitement. Patrick was with him, and
the table and the whole floor were covered with queer, long, jointed
paste-board sheets, with pieces of gay-colored calicoes, pasted on them.
Patrick looked as excited as Nat, and as soon as I opened the door he
exclaimed, 'Och, Miss Dora, see how he's plazed with um.' I was almost
frightened at Nat's face. 'Why Nat, dear,' said I, 'what are they? I don't
think they are very pretty;' and I picked up one of the queer things and
looked at it. 'The colors are bright and pretty, but I am sure almost all
the patterns are hideous.'

"'Of course they are,' shouted Nat hysterically. 'That's just it. That's
what pleases me so,' and he burst out crying. I was more frightened still.
Trampling the calicoes under my feet, I ran and knelt by his chair, and
put my arms around him. 'Oh, Nat, Nat, what is the matter?' cried I.
'Patrick, what have you done to him?' Poor Patrick could not speak; he was
utterly bewildered; he began hastily picking up the prints and shuffling
them out of sight.

"'Don't you touch one!' screamed Nat, lifting up his head again, with
tears rolling down his cheeks. 'Dot, Dot,' he went on, s