The painter’s hand paused between palette and canvas, and his face was turned toward the speaker in wonder. Every word was perfect in accent of the highest culture, and the deep musical tone of the voice was remarkable in one with the speaker’s snowy hair and beard. The young man arose to his feet. “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought—” He hesitated, as he again took in the rude dress of the other. The brown eyes, under their white shaggy brows, lighted with good nature. “You mean, young sir, that you did not think. ’Tis the privilege of youth; make the most of it. Very soon old age will rob you of your freedom, and force you to think, whether you will or no. Your greeting under the circumstance is surely excusable. It is I who should beg pardon, for I have interrupted your study, and I have no excuse; neither my youth nor my occupation will plead for me.” The charm of his voice and manner were irresistible. The painter stepped forward with outstretched hand, “Indeed, sir; I am delighted to meet you. I am here for the summer from Chicago. My camp is over there.” The other grasped the offered hand cordially, “I am Daniel Howitt, young sir; from the sheep ranch in Mutton Hollow. Dad Howitt, the people call me. So you see you were not far wrong when you hailed me ‘Uncle.’ Uncle and Dad are ‘sure close kin,’ as Preachin’ Bill would say.” Both men laughed, and the painter offered his folding easel chair. “Thank you, no. Here is a couch to which I am more accustomed. I will rest here, if you please.” The old man stretched himself upon the grassy slope. “Do you like my hills?” he asked. “But I am sure you do,” he added, as his eye dwelt fondly upon the landscape. “Ah, you are the owner of this land, then? I was wondering who—” “No, no, young sir,” the old man interrupted, laughing again. “Others pay the taxes; these hills belong to me only as they belong to all who have the grace to love them. They will give you great treasure, that you may give again to others, who have not your good strength to escape from the things that men make and do in the restless world over there. One of your noble craft could scarcely fail to find the good things God has written on this page of His great book. Your brothers need the truths that you will read here; unless the world has greatly changed.” “You are not then a native of this country?” “I was a native of that world yonder, young sir. Before your day, they knew me; but long since, they have forgotten. When I died there, I was born again in these mountains. And so,” he finished with a smile, “I am, as you see, a native. It is long now since I met one from beyond the ridges. I will not likely meet another.” “I wonder that others have not discovered the real beauty of the Ozarks,” remarked the painter.