"By Jove! young man, you'd better go if you don't want to have your head broken. D'ye come here to beard me in my own house? By George! your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this minute!" But Abel continued: "In your beautiful--" "Don't dare to say it, Sir!" cried the old man, shaking his finger. "Place," said Abel, quietly. The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed surprise and suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap in his hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirely calm, and behaved in the most respectful manner. "What do you mean, Sir?" said Christopher Burt, in great perplexity, as he seated himself again, and drew a long breath. "Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teacher says I draw very well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I did not dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don't like Mr. Gray's boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. But to-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was so sure that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave to come inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself coming up the avenue and ringing the bell. That's all, Sir; and I'm sure I beg your pardon for troubling you so much." Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and therefore the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man. So the old man said, with tolerable grace, "Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it this afternoon?" "Really, Sir," replied Abel, "I had no intention of asking you to-day; and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not bring my drawing materials with me. But if you would allow me to come at any time, Sir, I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art, Sir." "Oh! you mean to be an artist?" "Perhaps, Sir." "Phit! phit! Don't do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! Why how much does an artist make in a year?" "Well, Sir, the money I don't know about, but the fame!" "Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things." "For instance, Mr. Burt--" "Trade, Sir, trade--trade. That is the way to fortune in this country. Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that's what a young man wants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin West was a great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England. I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a good thing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is money makes the mare go. Old men like me don't mince matters, Sir. It's money--money!" Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not say so. He only looked respectful, and said, "Yes, Sir."