bout a group of fat, black-faced lambs, that simply
cried aloud for admiration, he became eloquent over the foliage tints of
an oak copse on the hill opposite. But now he was being taken to inspect
the crowning pride and glory of Helsery; however grudging he might be in
his praises, however backward and niggardly with his congratulations, he
would have to see and acknowledge the many excellences of that
redoubtable animal. Some weeks ago, while on a business journey to
Taunton, Tom had been invited by his half-brother to visit a studio in
that town, where Laurence was exhibiting one of his pictures, a large
canvas representing a bull standing knee-deep in some marshy ground; it
had been good of its kind, no doubt, and Laurence had seemed inordinately
pleased with it; "the best thing I've done yet," he had said over and
over again, and Tom had generously agreed that it was fairly life-like.
Now, the man of pigments was going to be shown a real picture, a living
model of strength and comeliness, a thing to feast the eyes on, a picture
that exhibited new pose and action with every shifting minute, instead of
standing glued into one unvarying attitude between the four walls of a
frame. Tom unfastened a stout wooden door and led the way into a straw-
bedded yard.

"Is he quiet?" asked the artist, as a young bull with a curly red coat
came inquiringly towards them.

"He's playful at times," said Tom, leaving his half-brother to wonder
whether the bull's ideas of play were of the catch-as-catch-can order.
Laurence made one or two perfunctory comments on the animal's appearance
and asked a question or so as to his age and such-like details; then he
coolly turned the talk into another channel.

"Do you remember the picture I showed you at Taunton?" he asked.

"Yes," grunted Tom; "a white-faced bull standing in some slush. Don't
admire those Herefords much myself; bulky-looking brutes, don't seem to
have much life in them. Daresay they're easier to paint that way; now,
this young beggar is on the move all the time, aren't you, Fairy?"

"I've sold that picture," said Laurence, with considerable complacency in
his voice.

"Have you?" said Tom; "glad to hear it, I'm sure. Hope you're pleased
with what you've got for it."

"I got three hundred pounds for it," said Laurence.

Tom turned towards him with a slowly rising flush of anger in his face.
Three hundred pounds! Under the most favourable market conditions that
he