ate. Some of them got me into trouble with the teacher."

"I can imagine it, if you caricatured him. Did you ever take lessons?"

"No; there was no one in Wyncombe to teach me. But I got hold of a
drawing book once, and that helped me."

"Do you know what I am going to do with this sketch of yours?"

Chester looked an inquiry.

"I will take it to New York with me, and see if I can dispose of it."

"I am afraid it won't be of much use, Mr. Conrad. I am only a boy."

"If a sketch is good, it doesn't matter how old or young an artist is."

"I should like very much to get something for it. Even fifty cents
would be acceptable."

"You hold your talent cheap, Chester," said Mr. Conrad, with a smile.
"I shall certainly ask more than that for it, as I don't approve of
cheapening artistic labor."

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly.

When Chester rose to go, Mr. Conrad said:

"Take these papers, Chester. You can study them at your leisure, and if
any happy thoughts or brilliant ideas come to you, dash them off and
send them to me. I might do something with them."

"Thank you, sir. What is your address?"

"Number one ninety-nine West Thirty-fourth Street. Well, good-by. I am
glad to have met you. Sometime you may be an artist."

Chester flushed with pride, and a new hope rose in his breast. He had
always enjoyed drawing, but no one had ever encouraged him in it. Even
his mother thought of it only as a pleasant diversion for him. As to
its bringing him in money, the idea had never occurred to him.

It seemed wonderful, indeed, that a little sketch, the work of half an
hour, should bring ten dollars. Why compare with this the hours of toil
in a grocery store--seventy, at least--which had been necessary to earn
the small sum of three dollars. For the first time Chester began to
understand the difference between manual and intelligent labor.

It was ten o'clock when Chester left the minister's house--a late hour
in Wyncombe--and he had nearly reached his own modest home before he
met anyone. Then he overtook a man of perhaps thirty, thinly clad and
shivering in the bitter, wintry wind. He was a stranger, evidently, for
Chester knew everyone in the village, and he was tempted to look back.
The young man, encouraged perhaps by this evidence of interest, spoke,
hurriedly:

"Do you know," he asked, "where I can get a bed for the night?"

"Mr. Tripp has a few rooms that he lets to strangers. He is the
storekee