Old Matt started from his seat.  Aunt Mollie uttered an exclamation.  But the shepherd, without pausing, continued:  “When his schooling was completed the boy came into the Ozarks one summer to spend the season painting.  The man had expected to go with his son.  For months they had planned the trip together, but at last something prevented, and the father could not go—­no, he could not go—­” The speaker’s voice broke; the big mountaineer was breathing hard; Aunt Mollie was crying.

Presently Mr. Howitt went on.  “When the young artist returned to his father, among many sketches of the mountains, he brought one painting that received instant recognition.  The people stood before it in crowds when it was exhibited in the art gallery; the papers were extravagant in their praise; the artist became famous; and wealthy patrons came to his studio to sit for their portraits.  The picture was of a beautiful girl, standing by a spring, holding out a dripping cup of water.”

At this a wild oath burst from the giant.  Springing to his feet, he started toward the speaker.  Aunt Mollie screamed, “Grant, oh Grant!  Think what Dad has done for us.”  The mountaineer paused.

“Mr. Matthews,” said the shepherd, in trembling tones, “for my sake, will you not hear me to the end? for my sake?”

The big man dropped back heavily into his chair.  “Go on,” he said.  But his voice was as the growl of a beast.

“The boy loved your girl, Mr. Matthews.  It was as though he had left his soul in the hills.  Night and day he heard her calling.  The more his work was praised, the more his friends talked of honors and planned his future, the keener was his suffering, and most of all there was the shadow that had come between him and his father, breaking the old comradeship, and causing them to shun each other; though the father never knew why.  The poor boy grew morose and despondent, giving way at times to spells of the deepest depression.  He tried to lose himself in his work.  He fled abroad and lived alone.  It seemed a blight had fallen on his soul.  The world called him mad.  Many times he planned to take his life, but always the hope of meeting her again stopped him.

“At last he returned to this country determined to see her at any cost, and, if possible, gain her forgiveness and his father’s consent to their marriage.  He came into the hills only to find that the mother of his child had died of a broken heart.

“Then came the end.  The artist disappeared, leaving a long, pitiful letter, saying that before the word reached his father, he would be dead.  The most careful investigation brought nothing but convincing evidence that the unhappy boy had taken his own life.  The artist knew that it would be a thousand times easier for the proud man to think his son dead than for him to know the truth, and he was right.  Mr. Matthews, he was right.  I cannot tell you of the man’s suffering, but he found a little comfort in the reflection that such extravagant praise of his son’s work had added to the honor of the family, for the lad’s death was held by all to be the result of a disordered mind.  There was not a whisper of wrong doing.  His life, they said, was without reproach, and even his sad mental condition was held to be evidence of his great genius.