"Oh, an artist! I've never heard of any Champneys before you who had such a hankering, though I'm quite sure it's all right, if you like it, Nephew. There's no earthly reason why an artist shouldn't be a gentleman, though I could wish you'd have taken over the patent-medicine business, instead. Have you got anything I can see?" Shyly and reluctantly, Peter began to show him. There were two or three oils by now; powerful sketches of country life, with its humor and pathos; heads of children and of negroes; bits of the River Swamp; all astonishingly well done. "Paintings are curious things; some have got life and some haven't got anything I can see, except paint. There was one I saw in New York, now. I thought at first it was a mess of spinach. I stood off and looked, and I walked up close and looked, and still I couldn't see anything but the same green mess. But--will you believe it, Nephew?--that thing was The Woods in Spring! Thinks I, They evidently _boil_ their Woods in Spring up here, before painting 'em! The things one paints nowadays don't look like the things they're painted from, I notice. I'm afraid these things of yours look too much like real things to satisfy folks it's real art.--You sure the Lord meant you to be an artist?" Peter laughed. "I'm sure I mean myself to be an artist, Uncle Chad." "Want to get away from Riverton, don't you? But that costs money? And you haven't got the money?" "I want to get away from Riverton. But that costs money, and I haven't got the money," admitted Peter. "I see. Now, Nephew, when it gets right down to the thing he really wants to do, every man has some horse sense, even if he happens to be a fool in everything else. I'll talk to your horse sense and save time." Peter, in the midst of scattered drawings, and of the few oils backed up against the dining-room wall, paused. "I could wish," said his uncle, slowly, "that you were--different. But you are what you are, and it would be a waste of time to try to make you different. You say you have one thing to do. All right, Peter Champneys, you shall have your chance to do it,--with a price-tag attached. Do you want to be what you say you want to be hard enough to be willing to pay the price for it?" "You mean--to go away from here--to study? To see real pictures--and be a student under a real teacher?" Peter's voice all but failed him. His face went white, and his eyes glittered. He began to tremble. His uncle, watching him narrowly, nodded. "Yes. Just that. Everything that can help you, you shall have--time, teachers, money, travel. But first you must pay me my price." Peter could only lean forward and stare. He was afraid he was going to wake up in a minute. "Let me see if I can make it quite clear to you, Peter. You never knew Milly--my wife Milly. You're not in love, Son, are you? No? Well, you won't be able to understand--yet." "There was my mother, sir," said Peter, gently.