"This is too much," exclaimed Iver. "At home father is at me to exchange the mahl-stick for an ox-goad, and mother wearies me with laudation of Polly Colpus. I shall revolt and run away, as I did not expect you to lend a hand with Polly." "You must not run away," said Mehetabel, earnestly. "Iver! I was all those years at the Ship, with mother, after you went, and I have seen how her heart has ached for you. She is growing old. Let her have consolation during the years that remain for the sorrow of those that are past." "I cannot take to farming, nor turn publican, and I will not have Polly Colpus." "Here is the spring," said Mehetabel. She set the pitcher beside the water, leaned back in the hedge, musing, with her finger to her chin, her eyes on the ground, and her feet crossed. "Stand as you are. That is perfect. Do not stir. I will make a pencil sketch." The spring gushed from under a bank, in a clear and copious jet. It had washed away the sand, and had buried itself in a nook among ferns and moss. On the top of the bank was a rude shed, open at the side, with a cart at rest in it. Wild parsnips in full flower nodded before the water. "I could desire nothing better," said Iver, "and that pale blue skirt of yours, the white stockings, the red kerchief round your head--in color as in arrangement everything is admirable." "You have not your paints with you." "I will come another day and bring them. Now I will only sketch in the outline." Presently Iver laughed. "Matabel! If I took Polly she would be of no use to me whatever, not even as a model." Presently the Broom-Squire returned with Mrs. Verstage, and looked over the shoulder of the artist. "Not done much," he said. "I shall have to come again and yet again, to put in the color," said Iver. "Come when and as often as you like," said Bideabout. Neither of the men noticed the shrinking that affected the entire frame of Mehetabel, as Jonas said these words, but it was observed by Mrs. Verstage, and a shade of anxiety swept over her face. CHAPTER XVI. AGAIN-IVER. A few days after this first visit, Iver was again at the Kinks' farm. The weather was fine, and he protested that he must take advantage of it to proceed with his picture. Mehetabel was reluctant to stand. She made excuses that were at once put aside. "If you manage to sell pictures of our place," said Bideabout, "our Punch-Bowl may get a name, and folk come here picnicking from Godalming and Guildford and Portsmouth; and I'll put up a board with Refreshments--Moderate, over the door, and Matabel shall make tea or sell cake, and pick up a trifle towards; housekeeping." A month was elapsed since Mehetabel's marriage, the month of honey to most--one of empty comb without sweetness to her. She had drawn no nearer to her husband than before. They had no interests, no tastes in common. They saw all objects through a different medium.