"Oh, he says that if they were good they wouldn't all come back." "Well, RA goes on painting them all the same," said Will. "Coo-ee! Mr Manners, ahoy!" This time the artist looked up, rose from his seat, stretched himself, and waved his palette in the air. "Hollo, young 'uns," he said, as they came up; "off fishing again?" "Yes," said Will, "and I've brought your rod." "Very much obliged to you," said the artist, sarcastically. "But not this time, thank you; I would rather paint." "Oh--oh!" cried Will. "Do come! I've brought your basket too." "To put nothing in, eh? No, not this time, thanks." "But it's a good evening, Mr Manners, and the fish are rising splendidly." "Honour?" cried the artist, with a searching look. "Bright!" cried Josh, earnestly. "All right, then. Here, I want to put in that little bit of sunlight, and then I'll come. How do you think it looks?" he said, resuming his seat and beginning to paint once more. The boys were silent for a few moments, as they examined the picture critically. "Lovely," said Will, at last. "Yes," said Josh; "I like it better than that last you did." "Mean it, boys?" "Why, of course!" said the lads together. "Hum! Hum! Yes, it isn't so bad as usual," said the artist, sadly. "I may say it is pretty. But that's all. I have tried very hard, but there is nothing great in my stuff. I suppose I haven't got the right touch in me. But never mind; painting has given me many a happy day amongst the most beautiful scenes in creation, and I suppose that I oughtn't to grumble if it gives me honest pleasure instead of coin. Why, it has made me friends, too, with a pair of as reckless young ruffians as ever gloried in playing a trick. My word, Josh, I must be a good man! If I hadn't a better temper than your friend Drinkwater, Master Will, I should have loosened both your skins with a good licking more than once." "Well, don't do it now," said Will, grinning. "Mine feels quite loose enough, and I want you to come and fish." "Brought my rod, then, have you? But what am I to do with my traps?" "Fold up the umbrum," said Will, "and I'll climb up here and stuff them into the cave. Then they'll be out of the wet when the rain comes." "Ah, to be sure," said the artist. "Capital! But it isn't going to rain." "It is," said Will, decisively. "Look yonder: the old Tor's got his nightcap on." "So he has," cried the artist, eagerly, as he looked up at the mountainous top, miles away, nearly hidden by a faint white mist. "Here, hold hard a minute; I must dash that in my picture." "No, no," cried the boys, in a breath. "You can do that any time. Come on." "Well, it seems a pity," said the artist, "but somehow you two always make me feel quite a boy again and ready to take holiday and play. There, put away my traps."