mportance of such a work of art, but the
artist had his own views on that subject and sent to New York for this
also.

The day after the completion of the picture a rugged figure in rawhide
boots and coonskin cap approached Chester Perkins's house, knocked at the
door, and inquired for the "Painter-man." It was Jethro. The
"Painter-man" forthwith went out into the rain behind the shed, where a
somewhat curious colloquy took place.

"G-guess I'm willin' to pay you full as much as it's worth," said Jethro,
producing a cowhide wallet. "Er--what figure do you allow it comes to
with the frame?"

The artist was past taking offence, since Jethro had long ago become for
him an engrossing study.

"I will send you the bill for the frame, Mr. Bass," he said, "the picture
belongs to Cynthia."

"Earn your livin' by paintin', don't you--earn your livin'?"

The painter smiled a little bitterly.

"No," he said, "if I did, I shouldn't be--alive. Mr. Bass, have you ever
done anything the pleasure of doing which was pay enough, and to spare?"

Jethro looked at him, and something very like admiration came into the
face that was normally expressionless.

He put up his wallet a little awkwardly, and held out his hand more
awkwardly.

"You be more of a feller than I thought for," he said, and strode off
through the drizzle toward Coniston. The painter walked slowly to the
kitchen, where Chester Perkins and his wife were sitting down to supper.

"Jethro got a mortgage on you, too?" asked Chester.

The artist had his reward, for when the picture was hung at length in the
little parlor of the tannery house it became a source of pride to
Coniston second only to Jethro himself.

CHAPTER II

Time passes, and the engines of the Truro Railroad are now puffing in and
out of the yards of Worthington's mills in Brampton, and a fine layer of
dust covers the old green stage which has worn the road for so many years
over Truro Gap. If you are ever in Brampton, you can still see the stage,
if you care to go into the back of what was once Jim Sanborn's livery
stable, now owned by Mr. Sherman of the Brampton House.

Conventions and elections had come and gone, and the Honorable Heth
Sutton had departed triumphantly to Washington, cheered by his neighbors
in Clovelly. Chamberlain Bixby was left in charge there, supreme. Who
could be more desirable as a member of Congress than Mr. Sutton, who had
so ably served his party (and Jethro) by