"After--afterward," he answered, and his companion could hear that some obstruction stopped his speech. "It is very--very lovely," said Mrs. Lowell slowly, and the boy looked over his shoulder again, apprehensively. "Did you say your uncle forbade you to sketch?" The boy folded the little picture back carefully in its wrappings and replaced it in his pocket. "Why do you suppose your uncle did that?" asked Mrs. Lowell. "I don't know." "Don't you really, Bertie?" she asked, dreading the signs of dullness she perceived altering his face as the brightness died away. "I guess it was because he said it--it wasted my time. He took everything except this." The boy's hand rested on the pocket that held the treasure. "He didn't find this." "Took what? Your materials, your sketching things?" "Everything. He gets very--very angry if I take a pencil. Twice he has whipped me for it." "But, Bertie, please try to make me understand. Mr. Gayne is an artist himself, he says." "Yes. He says he--has money enough to live and I haven't. He says I just hang on him. So I must chop wood and--and wash windows, and Cora makes me scrub the floors. He says if he wants to waste time painting he can, but I must not." Mrs. Lowell regarded the boy closely. "Your uncle showed me some very charming sketches up at the farm this morning." "Did he?" returned the boy listlessly. "He never was an artist when--when she was here." "That is strange, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell. "Strange that he should be able suddenly to do such good things?" "No," said Bertie simply. "It is easy." They were both silent for a time. The portfolio lay on the stones between them. The boy suddenly picked it up. "I must tear this," he said. Mrs. Lowell caught his hand just as he started to pull the sketch from the tablet. "Won't you give it to me, Bertie?" she asked. He hesitated. "He'll find it." "Indeed he will not. It will go into the bottom of my trunk." The boy took his hand away and she recovered the portfolio. He had replaced the pencil in the case. "I should so like to give you the pencil," she said. The boy shook his head decidedly. "No. He'd find it," he answered. "I am very much interested about your mother being an artist," said Mrs. Lowell. "You know you are going to do everything you can to please her. She would be very sorry that your uncle has not made you happy. I am sure she wanted you to use your talent. So, very often we will take walks and I will get better materials for you than this, and you shall make many sketches." The boy's brows drew together. It was evident that he was in such fetters of fear that the prospect was a mixed pleasure. "Do you remember your father? When did he die?" "I don't know. It was before--" "Was he a kind father, and kind to your dear mother?"