_Bartlett_, with a burlesque sigh.--"Ah, I looked into my heart and painted for _that_! Well, you find me still here, Cummings, and apparently more at home than ever. The landlord has devoted this parlour to the cause of art,--makes the transients use the lower parlour, now,--and we have this all to ourselves: Miss Wyatt sketches, you know. Her mother brings her sewing, and the General his bruises; he hasn't quite scrambled up, yet, from that little knock-down of his; a man doesn't, at his time of life, I believe; and we make this our family-room; and a very queer family we are! Fine old fellow, the General; he's behaved himself since his accident like a disabled angel, and hasn't sworn,--well, anything worth speaking of. Yes, here I am. I suppose it's all right, but for all I know it may be all wrong." Bartlett sighs in unguarded sincerity. "_I_ don't know what I'm here for. Nature began shutting up shop a fortnight ago at a pretty lively rate, and edging loafers to the door, with every sign of impatience; and yet here I am, hanging round still. I suppose this glimpse of Indian Summer is some excuse just now; it's a perfect blessing to the landlord, and he's making hay--rowen crop[1]--while the sun shines; I've been with him so long now, I take quite an interest in his prosperity, if eight dollars a week of it _do_ come out of me! What is talked of in 'art-circles' down in Boston, brother Cummings?" _Cummings._--"Your picture." _Bartlett_, inattentively, while he comes up to his canvas, and bestows an infinitesimal portion of paint upon a destitute spot in the canvas.--"Don't be sarcastic, Cummings." _Cummings._--"I'm not, I assure you." _Bartlett_, turning toward him incredulously.--"Do you mean to say that The First Grey Hair is liked?" _Cummings._--"I do. There hasn't been any picture so much talked of this season." _Bartlett._--"Then it's the shameless slop of the name. I should think you'd blush for your part in that swindle. But clergymen have _no_ conscience, where they've a chance to do a fellow a kindness, I've observed." He goes up to Cummings with his brush in his mouth, his palette on one hand, and his mahl-stick in the other, and contrives to lay hold of his shoulders with a few disengaged fingers. As Cummings shrinks a little from his embrace: "Oh, don't be afraid; I shan't get any paint on you. You need a whole coat of whitewash, though, you unscrupulous saint!" He returns to his easel. "So The Old Girl--that's what I shall call the picture--is a success, is she? The admiring public ought to see the original elm-tree now; she hasn't got a hair, grey or green, on her head; she's perfectly bald. I say, Cummings, how would it do for me to paint a pendant, _The Last Grey Hair_? I might look up a leaf or two on the elm, somewhere: stick it on to the point of twig; they wouldn't know any better."