CHAPTER IV.

THE ARTIST.

MR. RIVERS was turning away from the gate in the direction of the house, when, hearing an approaching step on the road, he glanced round, and met the gaze of a passing pedestrian. Some eyes have a freemasonry, which kindles friendliness at their first meeting; and this spirit so endued the look exchanged by the two men, that they both instantly stopped.

Can you tell me how far it is to Berry Pomeroy ?" asked the stranger.

While he spoke, Mr. Rivers scanned him over. He was a handsome young fellow, but with an impress of sadness on his bright complexion, and, withal, looking fagged. Something fantastic in the cut of

his billycock hat and tourist's dress combined with the portable easel resting on his shoulder, the knapsack on his back, and a canvas bag at his side, to proclaim him an artist.

"It is a good six miles," replied Mr. Rivers, and it is three miles further to Totness, the nearest place where you can get a bed."

"Then I have no time to lose," rejoined the artist. "Good evening."

"You are rather beat for ten miles more," returned Mr. Rivers, with his kindly smile. "Let me offer you a night's lodging, and tomorrow you can start fresh."

The artist had often received such invitations in his provincial and foreign rambles, and he made no demur; so another moment saw him walking with Mr. Rivers up the sweep to the house. Here they were joined by little Robert, who ran up to meet them, and tried to clasp the farmer round the hips, but failed to reach so high.

"Ah! my little Robin," cried Mr. Rivers, patting him on the back, "it is well I am

not under the vow of Jephthah, for you are always the first to run out to welcome me.”

"What would you do if I was Jephthah's daughter?" demanded the boy, suddenly.

It was a habit with Robin to ask everybody what they would do under impossible circumstances.

"I should be rather puzzled in such a situation," replied Mr. Rivers, merrily, "but I think I should ask you to stay till to-morrow, when the Pastor will be here."

"And I should beg to be allowed to take your portrait," remarked the artist.

"Oh! do that now!" exclaimed the boy, delighted.

"Not now, but to-morrow, with pleasure," said the visitor.

The boy jumped for joy.

my photograph ?" he cried.

"Will it be

"As near it as I can draw," smiled the artist.

"I am done with Letty in the photograph, and here is Letty!"

The child bounded away to the girl and

his mother, greeting Mrs. Rivers with a shout, but throwing his arms round Letty.

They all met at the porch, and went into the house together. Here the artist divested himself of his equipment, and took possession of a chair, which the farmer placed for him; and soon the whole party sat down to tea. Mrs. Rivers was not so hospitably inclined as her husband, and the presence of a visitor clouded her for a moment, but she made a virtue of necessity, and, propitiated by the boy's whisper of the intended portrait, paid the guest every attention. At first there was little conversation, but the tea promoted fellowship, and by the time it was over, they were all in communion. Then the boy ran out; Mrs. Rivers and Letty sat down to crochet, and the farmer drew a chair into a recessed window, and invited the artist to some homebrewed.

Both had seen other lands: the farmer the far West, where he had gone to seek gold, and returned poorer than he went;

and the artist the voluptuous South, where, with toil hard as the farmer's, and as great privation, he sought that richer treasure

art.

And he told the farmer how he had trudged through the Tyrol to Venice, and from Venice to Rome-the artists' Paradise, whence they fell to comparing the Alps to the Rocky Mountains, which Mr. Rivers had crossed on his way to California.

Letty and her step-mother listened, but made no attempt to join the conversation, though the girl lifted her fringed eyes to the artist more than once.

"You will think our Devonshire tame after Italy," remarked Mr. Rivers, as they talked on, "but an artist may find some subjects in it, and you couldn't have a prettier one than the place you are bound for,-Berry Pomeroy."

"I have heard as much," answered the artist, "and that is one of the reasons why I am going there. At least, I persuade myself it is, though I believe I should have made my way there some day, if it had no