“children among the hay-cocks,—­very indistinct,” “squatter’s hut on the edge of a common,” “Western American farm-house,” “negro dust-man,” “village beauty,” and many others.  He was much complimented upon them all by Mr. Ketchum, who enjoyed the whole collection and made comments and suggestions of the most delightful kind.  Mr. Heathcote looked infinitely pleased and flattered when told by him that they had “a cold, professional air,” and asked for copies of some of them, after which he was eclipsed behind his black cloth and instrument for two days, had his room darkened to a Cimmerian pitch, worked very diligently, and presented the fruits of his labors to his host with the modest depreciation but secret delight of the artist, smiling indulgently at Mr. Ramsay, with his “I say, old chappy, what an out-and-out swell you are at it, to be sure!  You must do the horses.”  Thus encouraged, Mr. Heathcote did the horses, the house, the family grouped inside and outside, Master Jared Ponsonby, Hannibal Hamlin, Master Bobo and Miss Blanche, the poultry, and (aided by mirrors) himself in almost every dress and attitude which it is possible for a man to assume.  He must have spent a small fortune in chemicals alone, and all his talk was of light and shadow, background, draperies, foreground, plates, and proofs; every table was strewn with photographs, finished and not finished, mounted or curled up like paper crumpets.

Mr. Ramsay, too, had his little diversions, not precisely scientific, but amusing.  He was in and out of the stables all day long, and was loved by every animal on the place.  Such long-suffering and good nature Master Ketchum had never seen, except in Fraeulein Schmidt; and then the strength, the resources, the conversation of his new friend enchanted the child, who followed him about, perched on his shoulder, played games with him, and had to be carried away from him struggling by his nurse.  Mr. Ramsay had other occupations:  he rode, he fished, he cleaned his guns, he got over leagues and leagues of ground, he killed several snakes and captured scores of insects.  He caught dozens of tree-frogs, for one thing, and shut them all up together in the drawing-room coal-scuttle, where he peeped at them from time to time, well satisfied.  He played little tunes on his chin, asked conundrums, showed Job a great many tricks at cards, and two French puzzles (saying, “Those French beggars are awfully sharp at that kind of thing, you know"); he played “God Save the Queen” with one finger on the piano, held skeins of wool for the ladies, shut doors, got shawls, and really need have done none of these arduous duties, for in looking so handsome and so jolly from Monday morning until Saturday night he contributed his quota toward the carrying on of society, and all beside were works of supererogation.  When these palled upon him a little, as was shown by his picking up a book, he looked very unhappy for ten minutes, and then, making a pass at his face with