Westover forgot him in the fidget he fell into, trying this and that effect, with his head slanted one way and then slanted the other, his hand held up to shut out the mountain below the granite mass of Lion’s Head, and then changed to cut off the sky above; and then both hands lifted in parallel to confine the picture.  He made some tentative scrawls on his canvas in charcoal, and he wasted so much time that the light on the mountain-side began to take the rich tone of the afternoon deepening to evening.  A soft flush stole into it; the sun dipped behind the top south of the mountain, and Lion’s Head stood out against the intense clearness of the west, which began to be flushed with exquisite suggestions of violet and crimson.

“Good Lord!” said Westover; and he flew at his colors and began to paint.  He had got his canvas into such a state that he alone could have found it much more intelligible than his palette, when he heard the boy saying, over his shoulder:  “I don’t think that looks very much like it.”  He had last been aware of the boy sitting at the grassy edge of the lane, tossing small bits of earth and pebble across to his dog, which sat at the other edge and snapped at them.  Then he lost consciousness of him.  He answered, dreamily, while he found a tint he was trying for with his brush:  “Perhaps you don’t know.”  He was so sure of his effect that the popular censure speaking in the boy’s opinion only made him happier in it.

“I know what I see,” said the boy.

“I doubt it,” said Westover, and then he lost consciousness of him again.  He was rapt deep and far into the joy of his work, and had no thought but for that, and for the dim question whether it would be such another day to-morrow, with that light again on Lion’s Head, when he was at last sensible of a noise that he felt he must have been hearing some time without noting it.  It was a lamentable, sound of screaming, as of some one in mortal terror, mixed with wild entreaties.  “Oh, don’t, Jeff!  Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t!  Oh, please!  Oh, do let us be!  Oh, Jeff, don’t!”

Westover looked round bewildered, and not able, amid the clamor of the echoes, to make out where the cries came from.  Then, down at the point where the lane joined the road to the southward and the road lost itself in the shadow of a woodland, he saw the boy leaping back and forth across the track, with his dog beside him; he was shouting and his dog barking furiously; those screams and entreaties came from within the shadow.  Westover plunged down the lane headlong, with a speed that gathered at each bound, and that almost flung him on his face when he reached the level where the boy and the dog were dancing back and forth across the road.  Then he saw, crouching in the edge of the wood, a little girl, who was uttering the appeals he had heard, and clinging to her, with a face of frantic terror, a child of five or six years; her cries had grown hoarse, and had a hard, mechanical action as they followed one another.  They were really in no danger, for the boy held his dog tight by his collar, and was merely delighting himself with their terror.