The painter had never conceived that a New England conscience and a temper of no mean proportions could dwell together in the body of a wood nymph.  When he had first seen Cynthia among the willows by Coniston Water, he had thought her a wood nymph.  But she scolded him for his impropriety with so unerring a choice of words that he fell in love with her intellect, too.  He spent much of his time to the neglect of his canvases under the butternut tree in front of Jethro’s house trying to persuade Cynthia to sit for her portrait; and if Jethro himself had not overheard one of these arguments, the portrait never would have been painted.  Jethro focussed a look upon the painter.

“Er—­painter-man, be you?  Paint Cynthy’s picture?”

“But I don’t want to be painted, Uncle Jethro.  I won’t be painted!”

“H-how much for a good picture?  Er—­only want the best—­only want the best.”

The painter said a few things, with pardonable heat, to the effect—­well, never mind the effect.  His remarks made no impression whatever upon Jethro.

“Er—–­paint the picture—­paint the picture, and then we’ll talk about the price.  Er—­wait a minute.”

He went into the house, and they heard him lumbering up the stairs.  Cynthia sat with her back to the artist, pretending to read, but presently she turned to him.

“I’ll never forgive you—­never, as long as I live,” she cried, “and I won’t be painted!”

“N-not to please me, Cynthy?” It was Jethro’s voice.

Her look softened.  She laid down the book and went up to him on the porch and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Do you really want it so much as all that, Uncle Jethro?” she said.

“Callate I do, Cynthy,” he answered.  He held a bundle covered with newspaper in his hand, he looked down at Cynthia.

He seated himself on the edge of the porch and for the moment seemed lost in revery.  Then he began slowly to unwrap the newspaper from the bundle:  there were five layers of it, but at length he disclosed a bolt of cardinal cloth.

“Call this to mind, Cynthy?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smile.

“H-how’s this for the dress, Mr. Painter-man?” said Jethro, with a pride that was ill-concealed.

The painter started up from his seat and took the material in his hands and looked at Cynthia.  He belonged to a city club where he was popular for his knack of devising costumes, and a vision of Cynthia as the daughter of a Doge of Venice arose before his eyes.  Wonder of wonders, the daughter of a Doge discovered in a New England hill village!  The painter seized his pad and pencil and with a few strokes, guided by inspiration, sketched the costume then and there and held it up to Jethro, who blinked at it in astonishment.  But Jethro was suspicious of his own sensations.

“Er—­well—­Godfrey—­g-guess that’ll do.”  Then came the involuntary:  “W-wouldn’t a-thought you had it in you.  How about it, Cynthy?” and he held it up for her inspection.