he scattered
sketches and fragments around her. In fact, before Zephaniah started on
his spring fishing, he had caught her one day very busy at work of the
same kind, with bits of charcoal, and some colors compounded out of wild
berries; and so out of his capacious pocket, after his return, he drew a
little box of water-colors and a lead-pencil and square of India-rubber,
which he had bought for her in Portland on his way home.

Hour after hour the child works, so still, so fervent, so
earnest,--going over and over, time after time, her simple, ignorant
methods to make it "look like," and stopping, at times, to give the true
artist's sigh, as the little green and scarlet fragment lies there
hopelessly, unapproachably perfect. Ignorantly to herself, the hands of
the little pilgrim are knocking at the very door where Giotto and
Cimabue knocked in the innocent child-life of Italian art.

"Why won't it look round?" she said to Moses, who had come in behind
her.

"Why, Mara, did you do these?" said Moses, astonished; "why, how well
they are done! I should know in a minute what they were meant for."

Mara flushed up at being praised by Moses, but heaved a deep sigh as she
looked back.

"It's so pretty, that sprig," she said; "if I only could make it just
like"--

"Why, nobody expects _that_," said Moses, "it's like enough, if people
only know what you mean it for. But come, now, get your bonnet, and come
with me in the boat. Captain Kittridge has just brought down our new
one, and I'm going to take you over to Eagle Island, and we'll take our
dinner and stay all day; mother says so."

"Oh, how nice!" said the little girl, running cheerfully for her
sun-bonnet.

At the house-door they met Mrs. Pennel, with a little closely covered
tin pail.

"Here's your dinner, children; and, Moses, mind and take good care of
her."

"Never fear _me_ mother, I've been to the Banks; there wasn't a man
there could manage a boat better than I could."

"Yes, grandmother," said Mara, "you ought to see how strong his arms
are; I believe he will be like Samson one of these days if he keeps
on."

So away they went. It was a glorious August forenoon, and the sombre
spruces and shaggy hemlocks that dipped and rippled in the waters were
penetrated to their deepest recesses with the clear brilliancy of the
sky,--a true northern sky, without a cloud, without even a softening
haze, defining every outline, revealing every minute point, cutti