se Frenchman a great
picture perished with her--a great picture done in crayon on manila
paper in Tom Lute's kitchen at Out-of-the-Way Tickle. Cobden is
committed to this. And whether a masterpiece or not, and aside from
the eminent critical opinion of it, the tale of Terry Lute's last
example will at least prove the once engaging quality of Terry Lute's
art.

* * * * *

Cobden first saw the picture in the cabin of the _Stand By_, being
then bound from Twillingate Harbor to Out-of-the-Way, when in the
exercise of an amiable hospitality Skipper Tom took him below to stow
him away. Cobden had come sketching. He had gone north, having read
some moving and tragical tale of those parts, to look upon a grim sea
and a harsh coast. He had found both, and had been inspired to convey
a consciousness of both to a gentler world, touched with his own
philosophy, in Cobden's way. But here already, gravely confronting
him, was a masterpiece greater than he had visioned. It was framed
broadly in raw pine, covered with window-glass, and nailed to the
bulkhead; but it was nevertheless there, declaring its own dignity, a
work of sure, clean genius.

Cobden started. He was astounded, fairly dazed, he puts it, by the
display of crude power. He went close, stared into the appalling
depths of wind, mist, and the sea, backed off, cocked his astonished
head, ran a lean hand in bewilderment through his gray curls, and then
flashed about on Skipper Tom.

"Who did that?" he demanded.

"That?" the skipper chuckled. "Oh," he drawled, "jus' my young
feller." He was apologetic; but he was yet, to be sure, cherishing a
bashful pride.

"How young?" Cobden snapped.

"'Long about fourteen when he done that."

"A child!" Cobden gasped.

"Well, no, sir," the skipper declared, somewhat puzzled by Cobden's
agitation; "he was fourteen, an' a lusty lad for his years."

Cobden turned again to the picture; he stood in a frowning study of
it.

"What's up?" the skipper mildly asked.

"What's up, eh?" says Cobden, grimly. "That's a great picture, by
heaven!" he cried. "_That's_ what's up."

Skipper Tom laughed.

"She isn't so bad, is she?" he admitted, with interest. "She sort o'
scares me by times. But she were meant t' do that. An' dang if I isn't
fond of her, anyhow!"

"Show me another," says Cobden.

Skipper Tom sharply withdrew his interest from the picture.

"Isn't another," said he, curtly. "That was the