The painter went round to the front of the house and walked up and down before it for different points of view.  He ran down the lane some way, and then came back and climbed to the sloping field behind the barn, where he could look at Lion’s Head over the roof of the house.  He tried an open space in the orchard, where he backed against the wall enclosing the little burial-ground.  He looked round at it without seeming to see it, and then went back to the level where the house stood.  “This is the place,” he said to himself.  But the boy, who had been lurking after him, with the dog lurking at, his own heels in turn, took the words as a proffer of conversation.

“I thought you’d come to it,” he sneered.

“Did you?” asked the painter, with a smile for the unsatisfied grudge in the boy’s tone.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The boy looked down, and apparently made up his mind to wait until something sufficiently severe should come to him for a retort.  “Want I should help you get your things?” he asked, presently.

“Why, yes,” said the painter, with a glance of surprise.  “I shall be much obliged for a lift.”  He started toward the porch where his burden lay, and the boy ran before him.  They jointly separated the knapsack from the things tied to it, and the painter let the boy carry the easel and campstool which developed themselves from their folds and hinges, and brought the colors and canvas himself to the spot he had chosen.  The boy looked at the tag on the easel after it was placed, and read the name on it—­Jere Westover.  “That’s a funny name.”

“I’m glad it amuses you,” said the owner of it.

Again the boy cast down his eyes discomfited, and seemed again resolving silently to bide his time and watch for another chance.

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.