So the old man said, with tolerable grace,

“Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house.  Will you do it this afternoon?”

“Really, Sir,” replied Abel, “I had no intention of asking you to-day; and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not bring my drawing materials with me.  But if you would allow me to come at any time, Sir, I should be very deeply obliged.  I am devoted to my art, Sir.”

“Oh! you mean to be an artist?”

“Perhaps, Sir.”

“Phit! phit!  Don’t do any such silly thing, Sir.  An artist!  Why how much does an artist make in a year?”

“Well, Sir, the money I don’t know about, but the fame!”

“Oh! the fame!  The fiddle, Sir!  You are capable of better things.”

“For instance, Mr. Burt—­”

“Trade, Sir, trade—­trade.  That is the way to fortune in this country.  Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that’s what a young man wants.  Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art.  Benjamin West was a great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England.  I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course.  We all do.  He made a good thing of it.  Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is money makes the mare go.  Old men like me don’t mince matters, Sir.  It’s money—­money!”

Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not say so.  He only looked respectful, and said, “Yes, Sir.”

“About drawing the house, come when you choose,” said Mr. Burt, rising.

“It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, to do it properly.”

“Well, well.  If I’m not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d’ye hear?  Mrs. Simcoe.  She will attend to you.”

Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling a strong desire to kneel and kiss the foot of his Holiness, Christopher Burt; but he mastered himself, and Hiram opened the front door.

“Good-by, Hiram,” said.  Abel, putting a piece of money into his hand.

“Oh no, Sir,” said Hiram, pocketing the coin.

Abel walked sedately down the steps, and looked carefully around him.  He scanned the windows; he glanced under the trees; but he saw nothing.  He did every thing, in fact, but study the house which he had been asking permission to draw.  He looked as if for something or somebody who did not appear.  But as Hiram still stood watching him, he moved away.

He walked faster as he approached the gate.  He opened it; flung it to behind him, broke into a little trot, and almost tumbled over Gabriel Bennet and Little Malacca as he did so.

The collision was rude, and the three boys stopped.

“You’d better look where you’re going,” said Gabriel, sharply, his cheeks reddening and swelling.

Abel’s first impulse was to strike; but he restrained himself, and in the most contemptuous way said merely,