“Exactly; I found him drawing on a barn-door with such zeal and spirit, that I could not help offering him some lessons. Only see, does he not get on? I wish I could get him to the school of design.”
“May I ask what becomes of his pigs?” demanded Julius.
“Don’t you hear?” as sundry grunts and squeals of those eminently conversational animals were audible through the walls. “They are driven home to this rick-yard, so here I meet the boy.”
“Who is he?” asked the Rector.
“I only know that he answers to the name of Joe. And here he comes,” as a boy about ten years old came lumbering up in big boots, with a heavy plaid shawl on one arm, and an immense green umbrella in the other.
“Thank you, Joe. Make your bow to the lady and gentleman.”
This was a pull of the flaxen forelock; for Joe was a slender, pretty, fair boy, of that delicately-complexioned English type which is not roughened till after many years of exposure.
“That’s right, my man,” said Julius, kindly. “What is your name?”
“Please, sir, Joshua Reynolds.”
“Instinct,” whispered Rosamond.