house. The blood mounted to Iver's
brow, and he clenched his hands under the table.

To relieve the irksomeness of the situation Iver proceeded to undo
a case of his colored sketches that he had brought with him.

These water-colors were charming in their style, a style much
affected at that period; the tints were stippled in, and every
detail given with minute fidelity. The revolution in favor of
blottesque had not yet set in, and the period was happily far
removed from that of the impressionist, who veils his incapacity
under a term--an impression, and calls a daub a picture. Nature
never daubs, never strains after effects. She is painstaking,
delicate in her work, and reticent.

Whilst Mehetabel was engaged frying ham, Iver showed his drawings
to the Broom-Squire, who treated them without perception of their
beauty, and valued them solely as merchandise. But when supper was
ready, and whilst Jonas was eating, he had a more interested and
appreciative observer in Mehetabel, to whom the drawings afforded
unfeigned pleasure. In her delight she sat close to Iver; her warm
breath played over his cheek, as he held up the sketches to the
light, and pointed out the details of interest.

Once when these were minute, and she had to look closely to observe
them, in the poor light afforded by the candle, without thinking
what he was about, Iver put his hand on her neck. She started, and
he withdrew it. The action was unobserved by Bideabout, who was
engrossed in his rasher.

When Jonas had finished his meal, he thrust his plate away,
produced a pack of cards, and said--

"Here, Mr. Iver, are pictures worth all of yours. Will you come
and try your luck or skill against me? We'll have a sup of brandy
together. Matabel, bring glasses and hot-water."

Iver went to the door and looked out. The rain descended in
streams; so he returned to the table, drew up his chair and took
a hand.

When Mehetabel had washed the plates and dishes used at the meal,
she seated herself where she could see by the candle-light, took
up her needlework, and was prepared to snuff the wick as was
required.

Iver found that he could not fix his attention on the game.
Whenever Mehetabel raised her hand for the snuffers, he made a
movement to forestall her, then sometimes their eyes met, and she
lowered hers in confusion.

The artistic nature of Iver took pleasure in the beautiful; and
the features, coloring, grace of the young Broom-Squiress, w