of the neighbourhood seemed with one accord to make for the farm upon the promontory that summer, and many of their elders, too. The Callenders had never been so popular, or had so many visitors; all of whom must pay a visit to the old kitchen, of course, if only to inspect Martin’s sketches in the inspiriting company of the painter.
It is doubtful, to be sure, whether the sketches themselves were so very highly thought of. The visitors privately agreed that the young man had a puzzlingly free hand with the facts. That picture of Dicky Jell’s house, now—he gave it a gable which it had not got, yet left out altogether the tastiest thing about the whole place; that new verandah-roof painted in stripes of yellow and red, that the Jells were so proud of, and no wonder—it was the latest thing out. But it might still have been in, for all Mr. Mills made of it; and though no one, to be sure, could more handsomely have admitted the oversight when it was pointed out to him, still, nobody, either, could have taken less haste to put it right. All the time the picture hung in the old kitchen it was never altered; and Mrs. Jell had reason to suspect that it went forth into the world still thus deficient—and could never feel again quite so cordial to the painter in consequence. Mrs. Lyon’s place, too;—was there really that pool of water before the blue-gums? Of course not! never had been, either. Mrs. Lyon herself only wished there was: it would have been so handy for the cows, though perhaps a little rheumaticky, so close to the house, in winter. And there Mr. Mills had not only put it in, but actually put her in, too, coming down from the door to fetch water!
