A painter had one day set up his umbrella and easel close to a little hamlet, and when school was over there was the usual rush of the children to look at “the man” and see what he was doing. Hating solitude and delighting in children, he faced quickly round upon his stool and gave them a nod of welcome. “Come to see what sort of a picture I’m making, eh?” was his greeting. “Yezzur,” was the reply in the broad dialect of the district. “Well, now, what do you think of it?” he asked, as he held it up for them to see. At first there is only much drawing in of breath and many an “Oh!” as they look at what seems to them at first sight a meaningless kaleidoscope of colours. At last one makes out one thing and one another in the unfinished drawing. “There’s the tree, look!” “See the blue sky!” “I can see William Timms’s house, _I_ can!” And so on for some minutes until almost every part of the picture had been properly identified. Just then a shout from one or two women proclaimed the fact that those who wanted any dinner had better make haste and get it while they had a chance. This gave “the man” a few quiet minutes during which he ate his own sandwiches, but before he had swallowed the last mouthful the troop of children was back again to see all that might be seen before the school bell rang. [Sidenote: Jacob.] It was during these last few minutes that the painter noticed a boy whom he had not seen among the others before. He was a little chap—not more than six or seven years old—with soft fair hair and a pink and white complexion. Two things attracted his attention to the boy. One was the extreme neatness and cleanness of his dress. His clothes were not of better material than those of the other boys, but they were so very _tidy_. His collar, too, was spotlessly white, and his hair glossy and unruffled. The other thing about him which seemed peculiar was the amount of deference and consideration that was shown him by the rest. He was given a good place close behind “the man’s” elbow, and once or twice, when there was some pushing, one of the children called out, “Now, then, keep quiet, can’t you? Don’t you see you’re shovin’ against Jacob Joyce?” Now and then, too, there would be a curious sort of appeal to the little fellow: someone would say, “Isn’t it lovely, Jacob? There’s red and blue and all manner of colours?” And Jacob would solemnly answer “I likes yed!” Then a whisper would go round, “Hearken to him; he likes red, Jacob does.” And all the while to the painter as he worked away there seemed something odd about the boy, and something unusual if not uncanny in the way in which the others treated him. At last the school bell rang, and all but three of the children rushed off helter skelter to their lessons. The three who stayed behind were a big girl of twelve who was looking after a baby sister, and Jacob Joyce.