"You see, boy," he hesitated, "there isn't anything but the place, and that's grannie's."
"Yes, but the place earns something."
"Not without a good deal put into it."
"Ah!" Peter drew a breath of pure surprise. "You're tired of overseeing, old boy. I don't wonder. Of course you must let up."
Again Osmond waited, not so much to commune with himself as from sheer disinclination to face the awkwardness of speech. It was impossible to say, "I am not tired of serving you, but you must not be served. You must carry your pack."
"You see," he began again, "the place must stand intact while grannie lives. After that, we don't know. But now—Pete, you must paint your pictures."
"Of course!" But the response was wavering. Peter smiled radiantly. "Come, old chap," he said, "you're not going to make rules for me, because it's better for the white man to bear his burden."
Osmond, too, tried to smile, and failed in it.
"I don't know but I am," he said, with a wry face. "Pete, I want you to go in and conquer—earn your fame, earn your bread. I don't want you to depend on anybody, even on me."
Peter was wrinkling his brows. He was delightfully good-tempered, and money meant very little to him save as a useful medium of which there was sure to be enough. He had never regarded it as a means of moral discipline.