"Can you hold him, Rob? Is he likely to go off again?" asked Bartlemy.
"Never," said Rob, confidently. "I think he may not like art."
"Probably suspects camel-hair brushes of being made of goat-hair," suggested Basil, pulling Bruce into shape, who was quite weak from laughing. "Where did you get the little angel, Rob?"
"Why, when Prue was only eight years old she found some boys abusing a little grey kid—probably she felt for him because she was a little Grey kid herself. At any rate, she purchased him for all her wealth—a quarter—and brought him home. He's been a good goat, and used to drag Prue in her wagon until she outgrew it. We named him Ben Bolt because he bolted everything in sight, but though I used to sing to him, inquiring if he didn't 'remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,' it never affected him visibly."
"Painting is over for to-day," announced Bartlemy. "My easel has a fractured limb, and my palette is broken."
"Oh, can't you go on?" cried Prue, so mournfully that they all laughed.
"Not to-day. We'll try again—sans Ben Bolt—soon," said Bartlemy.
"It's such a pity; my dress is so clean," sighed Prue.
"She finds it a world of stains and pains," observed Rob. "Never mind, Prue; you aren't losing your hair yet."