s I am sometimes with
the boys," answered Jan. "They are not a bad set, anyhow, to be so
many. I know I am not half as thankful as I ought to be: not in bed a
day since I can remember."

CHAPTER V.

AN ARTIST.

Time slipped away rapidly at the golden house. There had been many
pleasant family scenes, both within and around the cottage, since Nono
had been so tenderly welcomed there, eight years before.

It was a bright July morning. The bit of a rye-field on the other side
of the road stood in the summer sunshine in tempting perfection. The
harvesting had begun, in a slow though it might be a sure manner. A
tall, spare old man, his hat laid aside, and his few scattered gray
locks fluttering in the gentle breeze, was the only reaper. His shirt
sleeves rolled up above the elbows showed his meagre, bony arms. His
thin neck and breast were bare, as he suffered from heat from his
unwonted labour. The scythe moved slowly, and the old man stopped
often to draw a long breath. Near him stood a fair-haired, sturdy
little girl, who held up her apron full of corn flowers, as blue as the
eyes that looked so approvingly upon them. They were in the midst of a
chat in a moment of rest, when a figure, strange and interesting to
them both, came along the road with a light, free step.

The new-comer was a tall young girl, with a white parasol in her hand,
though her wide-brimmed hat seemed enough to keep her fair face from
being browned by the glad sunshine. She stopped suddenly when she came
in front of the cottage, and fixed her eyes on the old man and the
child with an expression of astonished delight. "Charming! beautiful!
I must paint them," she said to herself.

The stranger put down the camp-stool she had on her arm, and screwed
into its back her parasol with the long handle. She sat down at once
and opened her box, where paper and pallet and all manner of
conveniences for amateur painters were admirably arranged. "Please,
please stand still," she said; "just as you are. I want to paint you."

"I have to stop often to rest; but I must work while I can. I don't
want to be idle if I am old. I can't do a real day's work; but I can
get something done if I am industrious," said the gray-haired labourer
hesitatingly.

The child seemed to notice something sorrowful in the tone of her
companion's voice, and she came quickly to his aid, saying,--

"Uncle Pelle is the best man in the world. Mother says he'