suppose it is the conviction of sin. That is what they call it."
For an instant the old man's face was blank with astonishment, and then it wrinkled into a thousand lines of mirth. He began to laugh as though he would never stop. Nathaniel had never heard anyone laugh like that. He clutched at the old man.
"How dare you laugh!"
The other wiped his eyes and rocked to and fro, "I laugh—who would not—that such a witless baby should talk of his sin. You know not what sin is, you silly innocent!"
At the kindliness of the tone an aching knot in the boy's throat relaxed. He began to talk hurriedly, in a desperate whisper, his hands like little birds claws' gripping the other's great gauntleted fist. "You do not know how wicked I am—I am so wholly froward the wonder is the devil does not take me at once. I live only in what my father calls the lust of the eye. I—I would rather look at a haw-tree in bloom than meditate on the Almighty!" He brought out this awful confession with a gasp at its enormity, but hurried on to a yet more terrible climax. "I cannot be righteous, but many times there are those who cannot—but oh, worse than that, I cannot even wish to be! I can only wish to be a painter."
At this unexpected ending the old man gave an exclamation of extreme amazement.
"But, boy, lad, what's your name? However did you learn that there are painters in the world, here in this prison-house of sanctity?"
Nathaniel had burrowed into his protector's coat as though hiding from the imminent wrath of God. He now
