So the old life was put on again. I will not say that Elkanah was thoroughly content,--that there were no bitter longings, no dim regrets, no faint questionings of Providence. But hard work is a good salve for a sore heart; and in his honest toils, in his care for Hepsy Ann and her little brood, in her kind heart, which acknowledged with such humility of love all he did for her and all he had cast away for her, he found his reward. The wedding was over,--a quiet affair enough,--and Elkanah was anchored on the Banks, with a brave, skilful crew, and plenty of fish. His old luck had not deserted him; wherever he dropped anchor, there the cod seemed to gather; and, in the excitement of catching fish and guarding against the dangers of the Banks, the old New York life seemed presently forgotten; and, once more, Elkanah's face wore the old, hopeful calm which belonged there. Art, that had been so long his tyrant mistress, was at last cast off. Was she? As he sat, one evening, high on the quarter, smoking his pipe, in that calm, contemplative mood which is the smoker's reward for a day of toil,--the little vessel pitching bows under in the long, tremendous swell of the Atlantic, the low drifting fog lurid in the light of the setting sun, but bright stars twinkling out, one by one, overhead, in a sky of Italian clearness and softness,--it all came to him,--that which he had so long, so vainly sought, toiled for, prayed for in New York,--his destiny. Why should he paint heads, figures, landscapes, objects with which his heart had never been really filled? But now, as in one flash of divinest intelligence, it was revealed to him!--This sea, this fog, this sky, these stars, this old, old life, which he had been almost born into.--Oh, blind bat indeed, not to have seen, long, long ago, that this was your birthright in Art! not to have felt in your innermost heart, that this was indeed that thing, if anything, which God had called you to paint! For this Elkanah had drunk in from his earliest youth,--this he understood to its very core; but the poor secret of that other life, which is so draped about with the artistic mannerisms and fashionable Art of New York, or any other civilized life, he had never rightly appreciated. In that sunset-hour was born a _painter_! III. It chanced, that, a few months ago, I paid my accustomed summer visit to an old friend, living near Boston,--a retired merchant he calls himself. He began life as a cabin-boy,--became, in time, master of an Indiaman,--then, partner in a China house,--and after many years' residence in Canton, returned some years ago, heart and liver whole, to spend his remaining days among olden scenes. A man of truest culture, generous heart, and rarely erring taste. I never go there without finding something new and admirable. "What am I to see, this time?" I asked, after dinner, looking about the drawing-room. "Come. I'll show you."